


What Lies Unseen 【 A Witcher AU 】

by CrownedKingLewis, SelfishPrick



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Crossover, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gore, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Lots of it, M/M, Not Beta Read, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Swearing, lots of monster slaughtering, pls help, probably, same sex relationships are common but not accepted in this universe, the tags change as the story progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:13:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21861910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrownedKingLewis/pseuds/CrownedKingLewis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SelfishPrick/pseuds/SelfishPrick
Summary: Uilliem of Skellige is an outcast and a scorned freak. He’s awitcher,a trained monster hunter from the Northern Kingdoms. But to many, he’s one of the very men they fear.His fate has turned him into a bitter man with a knack for trouble, a fact that brings him to an unfortunate predicament. His only way out appears to be an impossible contract – a nobleman's son went missing seven years ago. Uilliem’s job is to find him alive and bring him back home. Only then he can earn his so called freedom.A life he has truly no control of.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 22
Kudos: 102





	1. The Hunter's Path

**Author's Note:**

> We've been working on this fic for 8 months and now we're excited to share it with all of you! _(it's still in the writing process)_  
>  Feedback is welcomed and encouraged - thank you sincerely in advance to those of you who take the time to leave us some :)
> 
> This is supposed to be read more or less like a "book". Don't expect the plot to move too fast. It's heavily slow burn and we will focus on Billy as the main character for the majority of it. If you happen to get lost, the official Netflix show airs tomorrow! We're hoping it may help you understand this universe better.
> 
> (From [CrownedKingLewis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrownedKingLewis/): Special thanks to [SelfishPrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SelfishPrick) for being such a patient partner and writer)
> 
> (From [SelfishPrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SelfishPrick): Special thanks to [CrownedKingLewis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrownedKingLewis/) for never stopping to inspire and motivate me)
> 
> _(on tumblr you can find SelfishPrick as[ wasting-time-again ](https://wasting-time-again.tumblr.com/) ; and CrownedKingLewis as [benalras](https://benalras.tumblr.com/))_
> 
> **ART:** [ masterpost (all the art we've done for this beast)](https://wasting-time-again.tumblr.com/post/189761475179/the-fic-what-lies-unseen-a-witcher-au)
> 
> enjoy this lazy poster for the story:  
> 

It was said that the man came to Novigrad through the Tretogor Gate. He entered the city on horseback during a rainy night. He kept a slow pace. Perhaps his horse was tired from the road. The dark clouds above covered the moonlight completely. The main roads were muddy, the streets were empty and only the light of the oil lamps illuminated the path. It was a very warm night. The heat felt wet and sticky. The air was heavy and _suffocating_. Despite that, the man was dressed in heavy armor. It was obvious even through the long dark cloak that covered him from head to toe.

He arrived at Hierarch Square not too long after. All the stalls at the market were already closed, including the bank and the armorer shop. He stopped for a moment in front of the Kingfisher Inn. He stood there, listening to the cacophony of voices inside. At this hour it was no surprise there was a crowd inside. This was the biggest and best Inn in the city and there were a number of musical performances at the moment. The spirits were high.

The stranger did not enter The Kingfisher. He pulled the reins of his horse and continued farther down the road and stopped in front of the Notice Board. 

Notice boards were useful sources of information. Anyone could hang a note there - a silly declaration, a poem or a joke - but their primary use was for the display of contracts, pleas for help, warnings or general information about an area. 

From his saddle, the man looked at the papers hanging there. He didn’t take long before he found what he was looking for - a heavy parchment with a red wax seal at the bottom. An official contract for the elimination of a monster dwelling in the woods outside of town. The name and location of the contractor were promptly written down there as well. He reached out and swiftly took the contract off the notice board, tucked it under his cloak, protecting it from the rain, and prompted his horse into motion again. 

He rode toward the eastern part of town, a place called The Bits. It was the poorest district in the city as well as the most crowded. At night it’s streets were as empty as anywhere else in Novigrad, but in the dark alleyways, and crooked paths, bandits lurked, looking for an easy prey… or any prey at all. 

That was the reason why a group of thugs surrounded the stranger on the horse without even making the effort to size him up. _A mistake on their part._ They looked like seasoned fighters. There was only one archer among them and he stood farther away. Some of them wore no armor at all. They were bare chested to show off intimidating collection of tattoos and bulging muscles. Others were dressed in light leather armor. But all of them were armed with either heavy bats or blunt iron swords, because their primary goal was not to kill, but intimidate, scare and roughen up. After all, robbery was only effective if there were people to steal from. It wouldn’t do if they aimlessly killed whoever walked by. 

A scary bunch, really, but the man in the long cloak in front of them did not show any fear. He pulled the reins of his horse when the gang surrounded him. He looked them up carefully before he spoke up. His voice cut through the night air like a knife slicing through butter.

“What’s the problem?” he asked calmly.

“You daft?” spat one of the bandits holding a lit torch in his hand. “We, the Cut-ups, own these streets. Now cough up yer coins if you wanna’ walk atta’ here alive.”

The man on the horse laughed. It was a short sound, almost like a cough, but the smile on his lips was visible under his hood. He finally looked up, revealing eyes that reflected the light from the torch.

Gasps could be heard and some of the bandits stepped back.

“Demon!” one of them screamed, but another smacked him out of his fright.

“Don’t be stupid. It’s just a trick of the light.”

“Something funny?”

“Yeah. You,” answered the man, throwing off his hood at the same time. 

Underneath was a tangled mess of curly blonde hair and braids. He had pale skin and a jagged scar running down on the side of his face, from his jaw up to his forehead, barely missing an eye. He had another diagonal scar on his mouth on the same side, this one clearly from a blade, reaching both his bottom and upper lip, pulling one upward. But that was not what struck fear into the bandits. It was the medallion of a bear’s head that hung from his neck.

"That's a plowin' witcher!" exclaimed the one who seemed to be the leader. He held out a hand to stop his subordinates from attacking. 

There was a spark of madness dancing in the rider’s eyes. It was like he was taunting them and begging them to fight. Hunger was evident in his smile. 

"There's no winning this fight, lads," the leader told his gang, stepping aside. A few looked shocked, others confused, but none of them made a move to step forward and attack. 

"Don't wanna’ fight no monster hunter." 

“The fucker can use magic.”

They were allowing him pass, but the man looked disappointed. The smile on his face faded away. He looked them up one last time before he prompted his horse to move forward. 

He clicked his tongue. "Bandits around here gettin’ smarter." He almost laughed at this. "Who would've thought…" 

He continued down the road, the sound of his voice being drowned by the steady light drizzle and the distance between the gang and him. The weathered Cut-ups finally felt like they could talk amongst themselves. 

"Why did you let him go?!" 

"We'll lose rep to the fuckin’ Blind Eyes, are you fuckin’ kidding me!?" 

"Rather that…" the leader spoke up and his voice sounded grim. "Than be dead." 

The seriousness of those words and the tone of the leader made his subordinates close their mouths and lower their heads. They came to understand that it wasn't a fight they could have won, but despite that, their pride as ruthless criminals was wounded. 

+

The witcher arrived at the Nowhere Inn, a lower class inn located in The Bits district in Novigrad. It was an inn much like any other, however, Nowhere was a favorite among local… "entrepreneurs," as the staff asked no questions and people were free to go about their business safely.

The contractor was a man named Kruegel - a businessman, from the information on the parchment. The contract specified the importance of clearing the road in the Northern woods from an unknown woodland creature. The witcher noticed that the contract was a year old. The deal might have expired or the rewards might have changed but nevertheless, a coin purse was always welcome, no matter how heavy or light. He was in desperate need of funds for a blacksmith as his equipment had been damaged on the road. It would be easier for him to repair the items himself but the tools he needed would cost a salty sum, at least triple the amount he would pay if he would leave the job to be done by a blacksmith. Maybe someday in the future he would stumble upon a forgotten treasure, but until that day came, he had to make do with what he had. 

However, the moment when the witcher entered the Inn all chatter slowly started to quiet down. Eyes were turning and staring. The outsider was carrying a sword - not something unusual in itself, nearly every man in Novigrad carried a weapon - but no one carried a sword strapped to their back as if it were a bow or a quiver.

They talked among themselves in hushed voices. It was a behaviour that the witcher was already familiar with and he didn’t pay them any mind. Sometimes scornful words could still stab at his pride and he could lose his temper. He was trying hard to unlearn this habit but it proved hard in the face of baseless insults. 

The innkeeper behind the counter raised his head above a barrel of pickled onions and measured the man with his gaze. The outsider, still in his dripping cloak, walked stiffly past the people gawking at him.

 _“Eh? A Skellige dog.”_ A man proclaimed to his drinking buddies who looked a bit confused. He seemed to be educating them. The witcher scoffed as he was passing by, headed for the bar. It seemed that not a lot of people were able to understand who he really was. To them, he looked like another pirate or islander scum wishing to drink himself to death.

“What will it be?” asked the innkeeper.

“Beer,” said the witcher flatly. His eyes stayed on the man who wiped his hands on his canvas apron and filled a chipped clay tankard. The witcher didn’t sit at the table. He remained standing at the counter, piercing the innkeeper with his gaze. He sipped from the tankard. “Lookin' for a kaarl _(man)_ named Kruegel.” 

The innkeepers eyes moved fast to one side, unknowingly answering the question. A small smile lifted up the edges of the witcher’s lips. 

“I don’t know a man by that name,” answered the man in the apron.

“That’s alright,” the outsider told him, stepping away from the counter. At the same time he was faced by a stocky man grimacing in an angry manner. Two of his companions rose behind him, no more than two paces away.

“What business do you have with master Kruegel, you Skellige dog?” rasped the stocky man, standing right in front of the witcher. “We don't need pirates like you in these parts of town.”

The innkeeper seemed to pretend he wasn’t seeing what was happening. After all, who liked pirates? The outsider took his tankard and stepped away. He tried his best not to scoff or jump at the insults, but he whispered under his breath, “Cuach _(crazy)...”_

“All Skelligers are thieves,” the stocky man went on, his breath smelling of beer, garlic and anger. “Do you hear me, you bastard?”

“He can't hear you. His ears are full of shit,” said one of the men with him, and the second man cackled.

“Pay and leave!” yelled the stocky man.

Only now did the witcher look at him.

“I’ll finish my drink.”

“We'll give you a hand,” the stocky man hissed. He knocked the tankard from the stranger's hand and at the same time grabbed him by the leather strap that ran diagonally across the witcher's chest. One of the men behind him raised a fist to strike… but at the same moment a hand rested on his shoulder and he went limp.

“Is that how we treat guests now?” a cold voice could be heard behind the men. It was a slender person dressed in dark clothes. His hair was short and raven black. It was like he had suddenly appeared out of thin air. 

“Master Kruegel?” His presence cooled the hot headed gang and all of them stepped away, heads hanging down.

The man in black had stepped in at the right time, because the witcher had already tightened his fist ready to strike back. Kruegel, a man of great influence in the shadows of Novigrad, scratched his chin. He was on the fast track to gain the title of a baron in the near future.

“Leave,” Kruegel ordered the drunken group. “And you,” He turned to the outsider. “I heard you’re looking for me. Sit down with me.” He led him to a table in the corner. “No, not there. Farther away, if you please.” He was neither superstitious nor fainthearted but he did not relish the thought of sitting close to the stranger. 

Both of them sat down.

“I am Kruegel,” the man in black introduced himself, toying with a sharp dagger lying on the table. “And I’m listening. What do you have to say to me, _witcher_? Speak.”

Something sparked in the outsider’s eyes.

“Yes, I can see who you are. You carry the witcher emblem.” There was a round medallion on a silver chain hanging from the stranger’s neck. It was a bear’s head, baring its fangs. But it was caught under a leather strap and was partly hidden. 

The witcher reached inside his cloak and pulled out a wad of parchment.

“Ye nailed this at the crossways, on the Hierarch Square notice board,” he answered. “Is what's written here true?”

“Ah.” Kruegel grunted, looking at the runes written down on the heavy parchment. “So that's it. And I didn't guess at once. Yes, it's true. It's signed by Tumrialt, Viscount of the free city of Novigrad, which makes it true. A contract is a contract, witcher.”

The witcher nodded to show he understood. 

“And do you have a name? Any name will do, it's simply to make conversation easier.”

“My name is Uilleim.”

“Billy, then, in the common tongue. Of Skellige I gather, from your name and accent?”

“Of Skellige.”

“Right. You know what, Billy? This...” Kruegel slapped the contract. “Let it go. It's a serious matter. Many have tried and failed already. This, my friend, is not the same as roughing up a couple of scoundrels.”

The witcher stood silent for a moment. He was calculating the best way to get more money out of this contract. At the moment he was completely _broke_. Bargaining for a better price and squeezing this out would be greatly beneficial to him.

“Ye wanted to hire a witcher, didn’t you?” the witcher asked in a calmly.

“I did. But not just any vagabond… One hears all types of stories about the lunatics of the School of the Cat. Which do you belong to?” Kruegel asked, but he was only met with a stony expression.

“Not yer concern… master Kruegel,” Billy answered flatly. He didn’t have an obligation to disclose information like that. “If you’d rather wait for another witcher, yer free to do that.” 

“Hah! Calm and confident - this I like,” the lord laughed.

“Let's talk about my reward first,” the witcher leaned in. 

“I beg your pardon? Asking for coin already? But you’ve not done the job.” Outrage could be read in Lord Kruegel’s tone.

The witcher gave him a meaningful look. Judging from the fact that the contract had been issued last year it meant the difficulty was at a level specifically suited for a witcher. Billy had no intentions to sell his services cheap. Since he was the only one suited for the job he had the right to set his own price. 

“Need to make sure it’s worth my time,” he shrugged.

“Just look at that,” the contractor scoffed. “Arrives in Novigrad and he’s off his head in minutes.” He thought for a moment before he spoke again with a sigh. “Alright then. How much do you think this should cost me?”

“This contract offers a 1000 _oren_ reward.” 

“Yes. 1000 _oren_ ,” Kruegel confirmed. 

“See here… I think yer takin' me for a fool,” the witcher laughed nastily.

“How so?” the lord scoffed.

“The official currency in Novigrad was changed last year from _oren_ to **crown**.” 

Kruegel could see the sharpness of those eyes beyond their unnatural color. He knew that this person couldn’t be swindled. 

“With the current exchange rate…” the witcher continued calmly. “7 _orens_ are worth 1 **crown** . That makes the reward for this contract less than 150 measly **crowns** .” His eyes pierced Kruegel and he stiffened in his place. That gaze had an overwhelming killing intent in it. He didn’t dare breathe. “ _This is a mockery_. I’ve been paid more for the extermination of a Nekker nest.”

Kruegel needed a second to think this over. He had put up that contract a year ago, so the currency at the time was correct, but after the change, he intentionally hadn't updated the papers hoping that whoever he hired would pay more attention to the number rather than the currency. There were rumors that witchers lacked intelligence but it seemed like those were false.

“Okay,” he answered finally. “As a businessman, I can also offer you a patch of land...”

“M'not interested in _owning land_ ,” the witcher scoffed. “Tell you what, make that reward 1000 **crowns** instead.”

Kruegel laughed wholeheartedly. 

The witcher cursed in his head when he witnessed that reaction. He had the tendency to get greedy, but right now he was also petty. The number he had seen on the contract indeed was what caught his interest. He suffered great disappointment when he noticed the currency. So he felt compelled to ask for the price that he had initially thought he would get. It was a way higher price than reasonable. Him asking for it had no doubt put Kruegel on edge, so he could be reluctant to agree to a bigger price during the haggle. Now Billy’s chances of getting a very high reward were gone.

At the same time Kruegel was forming a very high opinion of the witcher, completely misunderstanding his motivations. The price for the contract had been raised and Kruegel couldn't refuse to pay. He recognized the cleverness of the witchers actions - to haggle beforehand. It was also smart to set the price so extremely high - that way the witcher could not possibly get less than the absolute minimum. After the slaying of the monster he would have no leverage to hold over his head. It was the perfect time to strike. 

“That was rich. I could hire three witchers for that amount. Now that you’ve had your jest, how much?” Kruegel finally answered, set on lowering the price as much as possible.

Kruegel couldn't stop himself from admiring the cunning of the man, he was a true entrepreneur. But at the same time, he harbored deep hostility towards him. Kruegel did not like to deal with men smarter or equal to himself. The reason was simple - it was easier to exploit them, use them and then throw them away. It was hard or even impossible to exploit clever men. However, Kruegel didn't realize that witcher Billy was neither extremely smart nor very cunning - he was just greedy and impulsive. Even now, Billy couldn't possibly imagine what kind of impression he was giving. He was a blunt, straightforward man. He could easily read the hostility in Kruegel’s eyes, but he was unable to guess the reason for it was based on the Lord's high opinion of him.

The witcher decided it was only right to return that hostility with his own eyes. He didn't know why, he just wanted to be even. He also felt deep resentment because of his own mistake raising the price too much. However, not all was lost - he could still get more than the sum written down in the contract.

“650,” he said with finality.

But Kruegel misunderstood again. He was shocked by the high perception of the witcher, who with only just a look could read his innermost thoughts. He couldn't dare act on his foul intentions of exploitage nor could he even hold onto his hostility towards the witcher. He could only feel fear and awe.

“Hm…” He thought hard. 650 **crowns** was an extremely high price, but it could easily be considered as little above a reasonable maximum for the contract. Kruegel felt deep respect for Billy, who had intentionally lowered the price to the perfect amount, which would allow Kruegel to keep his dignity by having the final word. “No. I’m afraid that's too much. But we’re near a price I would consider reasonable,” he replied, but his earlier hostility was gone.

“600. This is my job. I cannot provide services for free.” The witcher knew that he could have easily gotten at least 750-800 **crowns** if he had managed to play his cards better. He made a note to himself not to succumb to his bad habits in the future. He didn’t realize that this had actually allowed his affinity with Kruegel to rise, which consequently created an opportunity for a very favorable business relationship in the future.

Kruegel exhaled with a happy smile on his face. “Yes. Agreed.” His mood was greatly elevated by the generosity of the witcher, who could have easily bled him dry had he so desired. Now he harbored only positive thoughts toward the monster hunter, who allowed him to keep his dignity in front of his people. Kruegel’s eyes shone with admiration. 

Not only that, but the witcher’s generosity had turned him into a benefactor. Because he asked for less money, he also allowed the speedy proceeding of the black market operation that needed the clearing of the road running through the Northern woods. 

Witcher Billy felt Kruegel’s gaze stabbing at him. He was sure that Kruegel was making fun of him for being too dumb to follow through with a simple haggle. It was very annoying. 

Kruegel, who was not able to read Billy’s thoughts, was sure that the reason behind his frown and glare was due to him coming to the conclusion of what kind of business Kruegel was running. Nonetheless, he was thankful for the witcher’s consideration toward his business and felt relaxed while he continued speaking, now with a more friendly tone to his voice. “What times...” he sighed. “What foul times! Twenty years ago who would have thought, even in a drunken stupor, that a profession such as being a witcher would exist? Traveling killers of basilisks, slayers of dragons and goblins!” Kruegel shook his head just before he clapped his hands. “Beer!” he called, ordering one for the witcher as well, as he remembered what had happened to him earlier. “And sit closer, Billy. What do I care?”

The beer, when it arrived, was cold and frothy.

“Foul times,” Kruegel muttered, drinking deep from his tankard. “All sorts of filth has sprung up. Mahakam, in the mountains, is teeming with bogeymen. In the past it was just wolves howling in the woods, but now it's kobolds and spriggans wherever you spit, werewolves or some other vermin. Fairies and beasts snatch children from villages by the hundreds. We have diseases never heard of before; it makes my hair stand on end. And now, to top it all, this!” He pushed the wad of paper back across the table. His finger tapped on the proclamation written on it. “It's not surprising that you witchers’ services are in demand.”

“Yes,” Billy answered flatly while he took a sip from the own tankard. 

“You've had a fair amount of experience, I dare presume?” Kruegel looked sideways at him. “I would love to hear about it,” he added, hoping for an interesting story.

Billy’s expression changed into something that was supposed to be a smile. “Master Kruegel, ye know our code of practice forbids us to speak of our work.”

“A convenient code, witcher, very convenient. But tell me, have you had anything to do with spriggans?”

“Yes.”

“Chorts or howlers?”

“Those too.”

Kruegel hesitated. “Then are you able to make a guess at what monster is prowling the Northern woods?“

Billy raised his gaze, looking the man in the eyes. “I cannot… Or I would _rather not_ ,” Kruegel respected the honesty and caution of the man. “I can only give a satisfactory answer after I’ve concluded an investigation.”

“And when will that be?”

“Tomorrow,” Billy answered flatly, continuing sipping his beer. “Is there any information beside the details described in the document?” he asked. “Any witnesses of an attack that I can talk to?”

Kruegel thought for a moment before answering. “None come to mind. Folk have abandoned their homes around the forest. If anyone can tell you something about that beast, it would be the men I have stationed at the entry of the woods. For the safety of travelers, they are there to turn away any who try to venture forth.”

“Hmm…” Billy muttered, thinking deeply about where his investigation needed to start.

Kruegel mistook that stern look for yet another hint of the brilliance of the witcher’s mind. He was sure that Billy had seen through him and deduced that the men stationed at the woods had purposely driven people away not because of their own safety, but for the sake of keeping the black market’s route secret and undisturbed. Even the rumors of a monster lurking the woods was a good strategy to keep people away; it was only bad luck that there turned out to be an actual monster there.

“If you succeed, witcher, the reward is yours. Maybe I will add something if you do well,” Kruegel added with an eager smile that hinted at their unspoken understanding of the situation.

+

The following day, the witcher was traveling slowly toward his contract destination. The weather had cleared up from last night and the mud on the road was already drying up. He had taken a detour from the highway and was treading through a small path that led to the Northern forest. He was planning to first go through the abandoned village near the woods before venturing forth and meeting Kruegel’s mercenaries. 

Kruegel had said a lot of curious things. Billy still couldn’t understand the quick shift in his attitude, however he was pretty sure that the guy had not put up the contract from the goodness of his heart. Making a public road safer? Highly unlikely. He was funding the reward himself, which meant that whatever was going on in those woods, Kruegel wanted to keep private. Even more so considering he had hired muscle to keep people away. Whichever way you looked it at - it was shady. However, a contract was a contract. Billy would get paid no matter what the contractor was hiding from him. For better or for worse there was no other monster contract available and right now Billy was desperate for money...

A large number of black specks were moving across the bright blue sky. It drew the witcher's attention. 

_Birds._

They flew in slow circles, then suddenly swooped and soared up again, flapping their wings. The witcher observed them, then—bearing in mind the shape of the land and the density of the woods—calculated the distance to them, and how long he would take to cover it. Finally, he threw aside his coat and tightened the belt across his chest. The pommel and hilt of the sword strapped across his back peeked over his shoulder.

“I don't think the birds are circling there for nothin',” he said before prompting his mare forward. “Maybe it's just a dead elk,” he murmured. “But maybe s'not. Who knows?”

The witcher scanned the crowns of the trees. Little way off from the small path, which led deeper into the woods, was an undergrowth, with tangled branches and roots poking upward.

The birds, scared away by the appearance of a rider, soared higher, croaking sharply with their hoarse cries.

Billy saw the first corpse immediately—the white of the sheepskin jacket and dark blue of the dress stood out clearly against the dull muddy colors of the undergrowth. He didn't see the second corpse, but its location was betrayed by three wolves sitting calmly and observing the witcher. His mare snorted and the wolves unhurriedly stalked into the woods, every now and again turning their heads to watch the newcomer. 

Billy jumped off his horse.

The woman in the sheepskin and blue dress was on her stomach with her face to the ground. The witcher didn't turn the body over, he just walked by her. There was no need to examine the corpse in detail—the shoulders and back were covered with thick, dry blood. It was clear the woman had died from a blow to the neck, and the wolves and birds had only found the body afterward.

The man was gruesomely tangled in a cage of roots. He was in an almost standing up position, with his limbs crushed by the tight vines. His face was distorted from terror, his mouth still hanging open. On a wide belt next to a short sword in a wooden sheath, the man wore a leather purse. The witcher tore it off and, item by item, threw the contents on the grass: a tinderbox, a piece of chalk, sealing-wax, a handful of silver coins, a folding shaving-knife with a bone handle, a rabbit's ear, three keys and a talisman with a phallic symbol. Two letters, written on canvas, damp with rain and dew, smudged beyond readability. The third, written on parchment, was also ruined, but still legible. It was a credit note made out by the dwarves’ bank in Oxenfurt to a merchant called Rulle Asper, or Aspen. It wasn't for a large sum.

Bending over, Billy lifted the man's right hand. As he had expected, the copper ring digging into the swollen, blue finger carried the sign of the mercenaries' guild: a stylized helmet with visor, two crossed swords and the rune “M” engraved beneath them.

The witcher returned to the woman's corpse. He turned the body over. She had no eyes, tongue or throat, and most of her left thigh was gone. The wolves and birds hadn't been idle. He turned the body over completely, and winced.

There was a gaping hole on the woman's chest and another lower toward her stomach. And those were not made by any wolf or bird.

The witcher carefully backed away to his horse. Without taking his eyes from the forest edge, he climbed into the saddle. He circled the glade twice and, leaning over, looked around, examining the ground closely.

“So...” he said quietly, “the case is reasonably clear. The mercenary and the woman arrived on horseback from the direction of the forest. They were on their way home from Oxenfurt, because nobody carries an uncashed credit note for long. Why they were goin' this way and not followin' the highway? I don't know. But they were crossing the heath, side by side. And then—again, I don't know why—they both dismounted, or fell from their horses. The mercenary died instantly. The woman ran, then fell and died, and whatever attacked her, stabbed her right through the chest, dragged her along the ground, and then ripped her throat and liver out. The horses ran off. This happened two or three days ago.”

The mare snorted restlessly, reacting to his tone of voice.

“The thing that killed them,” continued Billy, watching the forest's edge, “was not a werewolf. It wouldn’t have left so much for the scavengers. If there were swamps here I’d say it was a kikimora or a vypper… but there aren't any swamps here.”

Leaning over, the witcher pulled back the blanket that covered the horse's side and uncovered another sword strapped to the saddlebag—one with a shining, ornate guard and black corrugated hilt.

“We're taking a roundabout route. We'd better check why this mercenary and woman were ridin' through the forest, not along the highway. This is surely connected to the contract we’re here to investigate.” The mare obediently moved forward, across the heath, carefully sidestepping the hollowed dirt. “Judgin' from those roots… it split his ribcage. It’s aggressive and incredibly strong... Although it's not a werewolf, we won't take any risks,” the witcher continued, taking a bunch of dried monkshood from a saddlebag and hanging it by the bit. The mare snorted. Billy unlaced his tunic a bit and pulled out his medallion. The medallion, hanging on a silver chain, bobbed up and down in rhythm to the horse's gait, sparkling in the sun's rays like mercury.

+

He spotted the improvised camp near the abandoned main road leading into the forest. It was near the abandoned village and the witcher could already hear the mercenaries talking among themselves. They didn’t pay much attention to him.

_“...they’ve been murdered! Dammit, c’mon people, we gotta take him down!”_

_“It’s the work of the Spirit! He warns us.”_

The group of men who were passionately discussing something started to move. 

The witcher dismounted from his horse and followed far behind. The topic of their conversation was obvious. Listening in sometimes proved more useful than actively seeking information, no matter if he was hired by the same employer. So he followed in the hopes of learning something that otherwise might be left hidden.

_“We’ve offended him, Sveda. The Woodland Spirit seeks revenge. We’ve offended him…”_

_“Don’t tell me you’re buying that shit? That's peasant fairy tales,”_ a rough woman's voice followed with a scoff.

The group of men that the witcher was following stopped in front of two other mercenaries who were discussing the same subject. One was a man in dark velvet robe, from his appearance he looked quite wealthy for a merc. The woman beside him was wearing heavy armor, battle worn, carrying a jian sword, with a tassel attached to the tip of pommel, at her hip. This struck the witcher as interesting - this was a weapon not frequently seen in these parts of the world, maybe some would even call it exotic. It was very light but it could also be used as a bastard sword with two hands for more control. It had a very small handguard which meant that either the person also used a shield or their sword technique was very high. 

_“Offended him? The monster’s killed five already. He doesn’t give a rat’s arse about anything. He’s a ploughin’ beast from the ploughin’ forest,”_ a man from the first group spoke up just as they faced each other, obviously riled up.

The witcher could feel the tension growing higher. He could read from their expressions and stances that this was a subject that had been discussed before and this time the argument could reach a more physical level. If a fight broke out it would only make his job that much harder. Billy exhaled loudly before stepping forward.

“I have already seen the bodies. This spirit of yours is a strong one.” His voice startled the group of mercs and they shifted their attention to him. Some had expressions of surprise, and some were not pleased to be interrupted.

“That so?” The woman who’s name was Sveda turned toward the intruder. Curiosity but also a dash of hostility could be heard in her tone. “And who might you be?”

“Billy. I’m a witcher,” he answered simply.

“A killer for hire, huh? Not much different than a merc.” There was a humor in the curve of Sveda’s lips. “What do you seek here?”

“I’ve taken up the contract for the woodland creature.” He noticed the reactions from the group. They seemed overall skeptical.

The man in the velvet robe spoke up, “What makes you think that you can just show up here and — ”

“I’ve already spoken with master Kreugel and officially taken up this contract,” Billy interrupted him. That managed to shut him up beautifully. “A price for my involvement has already been set. Ye will do well to utilize my help.”

Sveda’s laugh rang out. “I like this man. Ply your trade, witcher.” 

“Who or what is this Woodland Spirit?” Billy asked.

“Tell you what is not - any of your concern,” the man in the robe spat out.

“Shut up, Brenas,” the woman commanded him harshly. From her conduct it was obvious she was the leader of the bunch or at least someone in very high standing. The man in the robe yielded to her words, even if reluctantly. He frowned and stepped back. “It’s a common beast. Murders any man that ventures into its territory,” she answered the witcher’s question.

One of Billy’s eyebrows shot up. “Exhaustive as descriptions go,” he scoffed while putting his hands on his hips. “What does this Spirit look like? Anyone seen it for themselves?”

The group exchanged looks before the answer came.

“No man alive has.”

“Great. Really helpful, all of you.” Nobody dared to open their mouths again, so the witcher decided to continue on with his next question. “The bodies - birds pecked apart their entrails and there were tooth marks, wolves. This the way it always kills?” When he glanced at Brenas he could see someone whispering something into his ear, but he withdrew fast.

“Only cowards,” a sneer from Brenas. He answered this time. “True warriors, men with the heart of predators - the Spirit grants them an honorable death.”

“Ye said the creature wants revenge. Why? For what?” 

“The village that was once here, they lived in peace with the Spirit. They hunted with spear and knife, followed ancient tradition…”

Sveda interrupted Brenas. “It killed back then, too, it has always been killing. How thin was their number? What few hunters they had? Now since we’ve taken up this land and trying to move through the forest, the beast’s turned even more bloodthirsty.” 

“We should honor the old traditions. The Spirit owns this land and we should appease it like how it’s been done in the past,” Brenas told her.

“You are a blind fool!” she spat in his face. “These woods are ours. High time we put an end to this beast.” She rested her hand on the hilt of her sword.

The witcher watched the argument with expressionless eyes.

“I’ve heard enough,” he spoke, his voice was flat. No emotion could be felt from it. “You’ve got a monster problem, that’s clear. Just not sure ye want it solved.”

“Oh, we do,” Sveda spoke up. 

“Our little talk - not nearly enough. I need to look around, figure out what I’m up against.”

“Be not rash, killer,” Brenas spoke with a stern tone. “It’s not too late to bring back the old ways.”

“I’ll decide what to do.” Billy turned toward the man in the velvet robe. He spoke in a cold voice that did not take any objections.

The witcher left them with that as his final words before turning his back to them, facing the forest. He needed to investigate the tracks in the woods. As he was walking away, he heard someone whisper in bewilderment to another: 

_“A sword on his back! What would they think of next?!”_

Fast steps come approaching his back.

“I’m the leader of this mercenary group,” the voice of Sveda chased after him. “If master Kreugel has hired you, that makes you part of this unit.”

“I work alone,” he told her, without stopping or looking back. 

Sveda had already caught up with him and was walking beside him, hand still resting on the hilt of her sword. “This doesn’t matter. It’s my responsibility to overlook your work and help in any way I can.”

These words made the witcher stop and turn his face toward her. Her cheeks had become pink and her breath was ragged from her running after him, but her eyes expressed her absolute resolve. He could tell she wouldn’t let this go and would inevitably insist on accompanying him. 

He exhaled through his nose.

“Do as you wish,” he told her flatly. “However, I was not hired to protect you. My first priority is dealing with the Spirit. Do not get in the way.”

“I can handle myself,” she answered, satisfied with his response.

+

Billy didn't return to the main road as Sveda expected; he didn't want to take a roundabout route, so they took a shortcut through the forest. The sun was breaking through the leaves and the croaking of ravens could be heard in the distance. 

Their walk was brisk, but it gave Sveda time to look and analyze the witcher. The mercenary woman wondered how the man could keep such a pace with the massively heavy armor he was wearing. He was dressed in a heavy chainmail coat that almost reached the ground. On top of it were pieces of worn leather armor, riddled with belts and numerous pouches. His arms and legs were covered in metal gear. On his back, there was a sword hanging in a leather scabbard. Yet despite this heavy equipment that must overall weigh more than 50 kilos - a ridiculous amount in her opinion - he was walking nimbly through the woods. She was sure that this feat was impossible for a normal man. Even a trained veteran would have trouble moving in that thing, let alone fight or run. 

She was not sure if she should share her thoughts out loud. Sveda was curious and she had many questions but through deduction she came to the conclusion that the witcher was more dangerous than she had previously thought. The man had to be a fuckin’ monster to wear that thing all the time. Even she herself didn’t wear her heavy armor all the time. She switched to light leather armor whenever she was not on active duty. 

Right now Sveda was struggling to keep up with the pace. Her breathing grew heavy and she could feel the sweat on her face, making her hair stick to her forehead. However, she didn’t complain and just followed. The witcher did not give her a break, did not even look back at her. Despite her agreeing to this treatment, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking he was an asshole.

They walked for about half an hour before they reached the area of the forest where the witcher had stumbled upon the two corpses.

“Aren’t we going to examine the bodies first?” Sveda asked when she noticed that the man stopped moving forward.

“I've already examined them. We can’t learn anythin' more from them,” he answered flatly, while he was looking with an inhuman sharpness at the ground. To Sveda, he resembled a bird of prey. She drew shallow breaths even though she felt tired, as if her making noise would disrupt what he was doing. 

It didn’t take him long to spot a trail in the moss. He crouched to examine it further. 

“Got a trail to follow,” he muttered, his fingers brushing the green and the soil. There were large tracks with irregular shapes.

Sveda stared at what he was examining, and despite her taking pride in her experience as a hunter and tracker, it was hard for her to tell that these were in fact tracks. They didn’t look like they were made by any animal that she knew of, nor a person or an object. 

“Wonder where it leads,” the witcher added before he stood upright again.

The mercenary cracked a smile. The man before her seemed different now than he was before at the mercenary camp. A part of that was the fact that he spoke softly and casually. It almost took her by surprise… until she realized he was not talking to her, but perhaps talking to himself. 

He walked for about a minute with Sveda following close behind. She felt on edge despite her knowing that the killings were done a couple of days before. The beast shouldn’t be lurking around anymore, but the more they walked forward, the more the hairs on the back of her neck were standing up. The trail led them to another corpse - it was that of a big dog or a wolf. It was lying in a pool of blood that had already seeped into soil.

The merc wondered why would the beast kill this animal. From the information she had gathered, the animals native to the forest were excluded from the menu of the monstrous beast.

Billy crouched down again. A feat that looked simple but Sveda found amazing considering the amount of armor he was wearing.

“The body is covered in thin and deep cuts…” the witcher mused while examining the animal. “Not unlike a razor…” he added and his eyes moved toward Sveda for the first time. It seemed like he was implying something but the merc had no idea what. 

After a second his eyes moved from her. He couldn’t find anything else that would serve as information on the beast so he moved on. The tracks continued on; Sveda would have been unable to follow them had it not been for the witcher’s sharp eyes. She was almost certain that his high perception was not based solely on his sight. In her mind, he looked like a hound, sniffing up an invisible trail. 

They passed a small creek where for a second he lost sight of the trail. After a small search he noticed the tracks appearing again further up and across. There was a bear trap, rusted and closed around a thick branch. Billy only glanced at it before continuing on. Soon after they were facing a tall boulder. From its height and narrowness it almost looked like a placed marker. Up against it there was a body of a man, held up by thick branches or roots, the witcher was unable to say for sure. The man was dressed in light armor, he wore a cloak with the hood still over his face. 

“So this is where Utu disappeared to…” Sveda shook her head. She was disturbed by the unusual state of the corpse. She could believe that someone could get tangled in branches and die later in them… but for it to have happened not once but twice. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Which would mean that this was indeed more than a simple beast.

“Smashed bones,” Billy sighed while he examined the body. “That takes strength. No point in tryin' to parry its blows.”

The simplicity of his words astounded her. She had a hard time believing the tales about witchers, as they just seemed like fantastical stories with the purpose of entertaining or scaring children. She had long ago dismissed them and believed that witchers were only simple mercs that relied on legends to squeeze out a better price for their work. But after spending only a short amount of time in the presence of a witcher, she had started to doubt her beliefs. The man had a fair complexion but his insane strength was obvious. His senses and reflexes seemed sharper than anything she could compare him to and for now they were only moving through a forest and following a trail, she hadn’t witnessed him in battle. What really struck her as abnormal was his calmness. It was almost unnatural. She knew the calmness one acquires with experience in battle but this was something different, devoid of emotion. 

The witcher left the body of the man behind and ventured forth. Sveda followed. The path was leading them deeper inside the forest and in a closer proximity to the mercenaries camp. The tracks led them down a path marked with tall boulders like the one from before. They were scattered all around in a single direction. That was something that made Sveda feel uneasy in a different way than she felt before. Maybe it was true that the monster has had a relationship of some kind with the previous residents of this place. 

The witcher stopped and turned his head to one side as if he was listening. Sveda couldn't hear anything. 

“Wolves,” he said.

“How do you…” Sveda couldn’t hear anything.

“A pack. Moving in our direction,” he added and at that time in the distance she could finally hear rustling and growling. They were drawing closer. “Prepare yourself,” he told her as he was reaching back and pulling out the sword out of its scabbard. He held the steel sword in one hand in a loose gesture. Sveda put her hand on the hilt of hers. 

Not long after a pack of extraordinarily big white wolves showed up in front of them. They howled and scattered in different directions. 

The witcher moved forward. As if propelled by an invisible force, he ran forward while simultaneously swinging his sword backwards, which in turn made his whole body spin one time, his boots kicking off dust in the air. Midway through the movement he grabbed the hilt with his other hand. The combination with the spin created a blow packed with incredible force and precise control. It directly struck one of the white wolves that had no chance of reacting in time. The animal winced and was pushed back, blood dripping from its fur. It bared its fangs and attacked. The witcher used simple footwork to move out of the range of its attack.

Sveda was dumbstruck. What the hell was that technique?! It looked like simple swordsmanship but the force behind it was overwhelming. The footwork created a forceful strike. At the same time, his control of the swords was superb. She knew the years and effort it took to learn the sword, she herself was walking that path, but she knew she would need at least 30 more years until she was able to execute a strike that beautifully with such precision and unwasted movement… But the more she looked… she grew to understand that his sword dance was crude, like a giant doing a waltz. It was trained to perfection - she could tell that much, but it was apparent that this man had no extraordinary talent with the sword. The man was only using the bare basics. There were some alterations to some movements but he was no master of the sword. Well… the execution was incredible but the swordsmanship itself was at a level where it wouldn't be possible for a normal person to rely on it against a strong opponent. However… how did he move so freely... with that heavy armor on? And how did he exert such power through such simple movements? It just didn’t make sense. 

Had she misjudged the man solely because of his intimidating presence? Was he really a formidable warrior? He was using simple swordsmanship and had no strategy going into a fight... She could only assume his strategy was an attack with overwhelming strength behind it, which would in turn sacrifice his endurance and probably tire him out quickly. It was a reckless strategy. 

The mercenary woman shook off her bewilderment and stepped into the fight. It was not her first time battling with wild beasts. The witcher’s attack had attracted the attention of the wolves and two more had started circling him. She decided to strike one while they were focused on him. Her technique with the sword was fundamentally different than his which apparently relied on physical strength alone. Hers drew strength from clever movements. She stepped forward and drew her sword fast. The speed and the force from the movement aided in strengthening the blow. 

While she was dealing with her opponent, the witcher was being simultaneously attacked from two sides by the remaining wolves. He stabbed and slashed, linking the moves in a rough manner but he compensated with extreme defence. Sveda was shocked that despite his attack being so unimpressive, his physical strength appeared not to be his trump card. His defense was… impenetrable. Sveda noticed how the attacks from the wolves landed on him, but the witcher would slip away from their bites unharmed. He seemed to be an unmoving boulder. There was no strain on his face while he was supposed to be receiving damage.

Could it be that he didn't consider the opponent dangerous? Could that be the reason why he wasn't using any strategy or sophisticated moves? Because his defense exceeded common sense. That no matter what he did, he would get out of this unscathed...? 

That perspective scared her. She looked at him with different eyes.

Sveda knew the advantages of wearing heavy armor but in practice there were too many disadvantages, especially in a terrain like this. No one in their right mind would invest so exceedingly in defence - the human body could only take so much before it collapsed. Either from the weight, the uneven footing or the continuous blows. It was true that there would be less or no damage but the exhaustion would prove the biggest disadvantage which would turn into the biggest weakness. Once the stamina was depleted a defeat was inevitable. 

As an experienced warrior she knew how ridiculous the balance in this man’s specs were. His way of fighting was absurd. His attack power was high considering his technique but his defense was inhuman. He wasn't reckless. He was a one man army.

The fight with the wolves was done in just a few minutes. While Sveda was dealing with one, around the witcher a couple crushed corpses were scattered. She stared at him as he was brushing the sweat away from his brows. He wiped the blade of his sword before slipping it back into the scabbard on his back. 

It was like he noticed her staring because he glanced at her. She quickly turned her attention to her own sword, wiping the blood off it.

“Good work,” she told him stepping over the body of the giant white wolf she had killed.

Billy grunted. “You as well.” His eyes shifted toward something in the distance. If Sveda didn’t know better, she would say that he was embarrassed. “We’re gettin' close to its lair.”

“Wait, are you telling me these beasts were protecting its lair?” Sveda walked up to him. He didn’t answer. Instead he took out a hunting blade out if his small bag and crouched down beside the bodies. She wondered what he was going to do but then he stabbed into one of the wolves and her composure cracked. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I don’t want to waste a fresh kill,” he answered her while he ripped the wolf’s liver out.

She just stared at him, absolutely lost for words. What was he going to do with that?! 

After he was done with that, he wiped his hands and knife and just started walking forward.

For the second time Sveda thought he was an asshole, but this time she also thought he was completely insane.

They walked for a short while until they reached a place where a ton of tall boulders were scattered all around. The witcher approached one and he ran his fingers through a long diagonal groove in it. There were a few more parallel ones beside it.

“Sharpened its claws,” he said. “Or just marked off its territory.”

“Are you saying those are claw marks?” Sveda exclaimed, bewildered. The boulders were twice the height of an average man and the marks ran all the way through them. She also noticed that there was a spark in his eye. “What is it?” she asked.

“It’s a _Leshen_ ,” he answered, stepping back from the boulder. “Male. Very old,” he added, looking at the area as if lost in thought. 

“So it’s a monster…” Sveda said and almost didn’t catch the witcher cursing through his teeth. “What is it?” she asked again, starting to feel nervous. “Is it a creature you can’t handle?”

“No,” he signed crossing his arms in front of his chest. “It’s just goin' to be more difficult than expected.”

“So what the hell is it? A leshen.. was it?” she insisted. Sveda knew that he was deflecting her questions. His answer was very vague and that meant that he was hiding something. She felt it was wiser not to push him for an answer in that direction. But she still wanted to know what exactly they were up against.

He looked at her as if unsure before he opened his mouth to answer. “A Leshen is an ancient and powerful forest spirit.”

“So it’s a ghost?”

“ _No._ ” he signed. “It’s a creature that dwells in forests. Some revere it as a protector, master of the woods, because it’s everywhere and does not like when someone enters its dominion.”

“What do you mean it’s everywhere?” Sveda looked around with a troubled face.

“Its inborn magic enables it to control the plants and animals within its territory. ” he answered flatly. 

Sveda whistled grimmly. “So how are you going to kill it if it’s everywhere?”

“It hunts with stealth and cunning but it's still a monster. It has a physical body.”

“But _how_ are…”

“All these questions!” the witcher finally had enough. “Do ye want me to give a lesson on Leshy classifications and variations? Knowin' how is **_my_ ** job. Ye needn' concern yerself with it.”

Sveda was just staring at him dumbstruck. She was almost certain the tales about witchers being void of emotions was true by what she had witnessed so far from him, but this proved her wrong. He was definitely angry or at least annoyed with her. 

She also found it amusing how his Skellige accent finally came out, but she tried to hide the smile that started to creep on her lips.

“We’ve learned all that we can from this place.” He turned his back to the boulders, back to the way he spoke before.

“Then we should get back to the camp.” Sveda suggested. “The Sun is already low. It’s going to be night soon… unless you’re planning for a fight at night?” She wasn’t sure what to expect. She had never hunted a monster before, nor had she worked with monster hunters.

“No,” he answered her flatly. “That is a work better left for tomorrow. I need to prepare.” He walked back the way they came.

+

The night was cloudy and windy. The gale beat down the reeds and rustled in the branches of the bushes surrounding the mercenaries camp. A man threw some dry twigs into the fire. Another wriggled around on his makeshift bed, swiping mosquitoes away with his hand. A bird screeched into the night.

A fire crackled, and behind it a cricket chirped fiercely. A few men were sitting around the flames. 

“I’ve heard about witchers,” a young man lowered his voice leaning toward another. “We should end our interaction with this… freak.” He was trying for the second time to warn the others about the creature that mascarated as a man. However this time he felt a chill run down his spine. The reason was that he heard steps moving toward the fire. Two dark figures were approaching from the forest. Two yellow eyes glowing in the darkness were fixed on him, an unmoving coldness in them.

Cold sweat ran down his spine.

All of the man hurried to get up from their seats.

“Boss,” one of them greeted the newcomers. 

Beside the figure with the glowing eyes there was a woman in heavy armor, with a hand resting on the hilt of the sword hanging at her thigh. When the two came into the light of the fire signs of battle can be detected from their appearances. 

“At ease, boys,” Sveda said, her lips curving into a smile. 

They made space for the newcomers around the fire before everyone took their seats again. 

“As I was saying…” the young man whispered again.

“You’re being incredibly rude, Brent,” one of the mercs whispered back.

“It’s alright,” The witcher’s unpleasantly cold voice startled both of them. “I’ve heard it all.”

“Truly?” asked Sveda without expecting an answer. What she learned from her time with the witcher today was that there were few questions that the man deemed worth answering. “Then, master witcher, can you tell us first hand which rumors about your kind are true?” 

The witcher shrugged. As good of an answer they would get. 

“The stories claim that witchers abduct tiny children whom they feed with magic herbs. The ones who survive become witchers themselves, sorcerers with inhuman powers. They're taught to kill, and all human feelings and reactions are trained out of them. They're turned into monsters in order to kill other monsters. I’ve heard it said it's high time someone started hunting witchers, as there are fewer and fewer monsters and more and more witchers,” Brent did not hesitate to speak even though he received a nasty look from his companions who most of, after all that, looked incredibly concerned for their lives.

“I’m sure all of this is untrue, am I right?” asked one of the mercs with a shaky laugh.

“Almost everythin',” confirmed the witcher and finally on his cold face, an amused smile blossomed. “And what’s left is just a bullshit lie.”

“So which one is a lie?”

“That there are fewer and fewer monsters.” 


	2. To Arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might have taken us forever to update, but we haven't given up! We plan on being more consistent ( hopefully ), so please bear with us. There is so much more we want to write.
> 
> A few things you should know before continuing: Chapter 1 has been slightly edited to fit some details in this new chapter. It might not be noticeable at all, but it's worth mentioning. Also, we implemented 'accents' into the dialogue. A lot of the dialect and pronunciation is being borrowed straight from the games. We're not purposely trying to offend anyone! LOL This is exactly how the dialogue appears in the subtitles. With that in mind, know that because Billy is from Skellige, his accent is more Scottish than anything.
> 
> It might sound like a strange concept but the both of us are obsessed with it.
> 
> There is nothing more to say! Enjoy!

The witcher knew of the creature he was up against, yet still decided to brush up on the facts. It was not a beast to be underestimated, or be underprepared for either. It took lord Kruegel a year to find someone experienced enough to get rid of it. And experienced he was. Just not invincible.

He pulled out a small book, weathered, the covers bound with leather straps. It was a handwritten bestiary - something he’d done himself and still worked on to this day. After decades of practicing, the drawings were now more detailed and precise, less likely to be mistaken for something made by a child. His handwriting, however, could use a little work.

Beasts were divided into their categories with a page or two for each. Some had a sketch of the creature accompanying the description of its weaknesses and nature. Leshens were classified as _relics,_ so he found the article about them fast. Although it felt unnecessary, he read through it, careful not to miss anything, then went to work.

There were two items that could aid him in the fight. The first, Dimeritium bombs - which would help in disabling the creature from its magic abilities. The second was Relict oil - a herbal mixture he could use to coat his silver blade for additional damage.

The witcher already had two Dimeritium bombs in his possession. Good thing too, because he lacked the ingredients to build them anyway - saltpeter and optima mater. Relic oil was not as tricky to make, all he needed was dog tallow and mistletoe. 

After he was done with preparing the oil, he looked at his pouch of potion vials. There was no way for him to know how tough this fight would be, so he needed to make sure he at least had a vial to aid with recovering wounds, and a vial to serve as a stamina boost if the fight prolonged. 

Potion brewing was not his favorite activity - he wasn’t talented at alchemy. However, he’d done enough practicing to be able to brew what he needed. The base for the potions needed to be strong alcohol, and the witcher felt regretful using his sole bottle of Dwarven Spirit. He had looked forward to downing that bottle some time in the future under the open sky, piss drunk, just to give himself a night to be useless. 

Ah… what a waste. No rest for the wicked.

Done with that, he used his time left to meditate away from the mercenaries. They were loud and brash. Didn’t enjoy his company either. He was lucky that his mare didn’t have the voice to complain. She would, probably, if she could - in place of the silence they shared through the evening.

+

“It’s time,” Sveda exhaled, sizing up the orange hues of the horizon. “The sun is about to set. We shall kill this beast before night approaches.”

“Nay,” Billy grunted out, fastening the saddle belts around his horse’s middle. Near the camp, Sveda’s men roared with laughter. “We shadn’t.”

Sveda, now exasperated for the long wait, glowered at the witcher. “Shadn’t? But you’re ready. The potions, the ingredients, you have what you need. You told me yourself—”

“There’s one last thing that must be done.” The man’s amber eyes bored through Sveda, annoyance clear. “Had I been ready, I would’ve told ye.”

“What then?” Tension grew quickly between the two, Sveda’s distrust fronting through her attitude. Billy could see that she’d lost patience. To him, she was too eager and driven. Sveda, on the other hand, found his secrecy far too suspicious. “ _What_ else must be done? Pray the gods we don’t soil our britches while we battle this thing?”

“The Leshen marked its territory.”

“Yes,” Sveda frowned, crossing her arms. “You told me that already.”

Finally, Billy turned to her, leaving his horse to chew on the grass. With a heavy sigh, he began to explain, “It means it’s marked someone.”

“What, like a cat taking a piss?”

“ _No.”_ Billy fought the urge to make light of the situation. “This means the monster has inserted its essence into… someone. As long as that individual lives near its domain, the beast can’t be killed, not completely. Sooner or later, it’ll be reborn.”

With this to consider, Sveda grew silent. But not for very long. “Could it be one of my men?”

The witcher shook his head. “It killed before ye got here, did it not? And the village, it’s abandoned. Whoever it is, they live in the woods as well, and we must find ‘em before we deal with the Leshen. If we don’t, all of this will amount to fuck all.”

“Must be one of those bloody elves.”

The two of them turned and noticed one of Sveda’s men approaching them - Bavro. The man stumbled like a newborn lamb, eyes bloodshot and face rosy. Billy could smell the ale on him from ten feet away. “Bloody knife-eared bastards always in our bloody business in the _bloody_ woods —”

“Elves?” Billy narrowed his eyes then turned to Sveda. “In the woods?”

Sveda gave him a guilty look, the apple of her throat bobbing. Billy quickly realized that she could be hiding something. She even faltered under his scrutinizing gaze. “They just keep to themselves, really—”

“Like hell they do,” Bavro interrupted, trying to keep his balance by puffing his chest out like a prancing peacock. He looked at Billy. “Ye ever get yer dick graced by an arrow?”

“Bavro,” Sveda hissed. “Enough, go back to the others.”

Despite Sveda, Billy answered, intent on exploiting this source of information. He didn’t trust the woman to give him any trustworthy details. “I ‘ave, actually.”

“Ah!” Bavro let out a boisterous laugh, “Then ye get it. Them elves are out there by the dozen. Territorial shits too. Past the river.”

“The river, huh?”

“They’re deadly though, witcher,” warned the drunken man, stepping close enough for Billy to feel the other’s stinking breath tickling his nose. “They hide like sewer rats, steal, then pounce yer ass when ye least expect it. Ye outta find who yer lookin’ for past that river, but when ye do, kill ‘em on sight. No point chit chattin’ when they’ll gladly do it first.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sveda spat, voice laced with bitter hostility. Both men shared a look, confused by her sudden outburst. Billy in particular sensed a hidden implication somewhere, a secret perhaps. Something juicy worth digging up, he _hoped_. 

As if attempting to cover up her reaction, Sveda cleared her throat and straightened up. “No need to spill any more blood. Not without orders from master Kruegel.”

Why they would kill elves on command was beyond the witcher. It was ironic how they thought he would, too. Slowly, Billy sidestepped Bavro. “Yeah, well. Thanks, mate,” he patted the other’s broad back. “On my way.”

“No,” Sveda’s eyes widened as she blocked the witcher’s way. “You wouldn’t go out there if you value your life. Surely the person you’re looking for could be someone else.”

Billy eyed her up and down, then snorted. “Unless there’s an old hermit livin’ under a rock out there, spare me the possibilities. M’looking for the elves.” Stepping away, he clicked his tongue for his horse to follow. “Come ‘ere, lass—”

“It’s suicide!” Sveda called after him, panic shining through her eyes. “Cross that river by so much as a hair and you’ll be a dead man!”

“I’m _already_ a dead man,” the witcher quipped back, gesturing to himself. “This is my damn job. Fuck’s sake…”

Sveda watched the man leave with his mare, her face growing livid with anger the smaller he became in the distance. Beside her, Bavro’s nose wheezed, and Sveda whipped her head around to fix him with her wild eyes. “You fool! Look what you’ve done!”

Bavro, seemingly affronted by her tone, scoffed. “Me? Boss, he’s a monsterslayer for hire! What’d ye expect?”

“Ugh!” Having had enough, Sveda abandoned Bavro to rapidly chase after the witcher. Just as the man himself began to mount his horse, Sveda caught up half-way, and began to make herself known. “Witcher, stop! I shall come with you!”

Billy appeared unimpressed when he looked over his shoulder. “Yer wasting my time.”

“I can lead you to them, if I must.”

“I know how to track a river.”

“I’ll save you the trouble.” At this, Billy remained silent, so Sveda pressed, tone softer. “Witcher, _please_ . If you fail to get rid of this beast, it will continue to kill. It’s been months. I haven’t left this damned place in _months._ If I can help, let me.”

Billy squinted at the woman, doubting her intentions. He knew she might be after something else, he wasn't sure what exactly. But he hadn't had a reason to doubt her before, either. Maybe she was just very passionate about elves. He grunted. “Get yer horse, I’ll wait.”

Sveda sighed with relief, nodding in the process. “I shall.”

+

Soon enough, as Sveda had promised, they came upon a shallow river not too far from where they had found the bodies of the Leshen’s newest victims. Even as the day darkened, Billy could see that it wasn’t very deep, but perfect enough for his mare to cross. His companion huffed as if having read his thoughts, a sign Billy took to urge them forward. But before they made it to the water however, Sveda shouted. “Wait!”

Billy groaned out loud. “Oh for…” He turned to her, scowling. “Have ye not a bone to pick with someone else? What now? I’ll get swallowed by a river monster?”

“No, I—” the woman bristled at his reaction, shoulders tense. “I’m trying to warn you. The elves won’t take kindly to an intruder.”

“As all elves do,” Billy said matter-of-factly. “Look, I’ve got nothin’ against your elven friends. But don’t ye think they deserve a warnin’ too?”

Ignoring his question, Sveda was quick to defend herself. “They’re not my friends.”

“Right,” the witcher shaked his head, then kicked his horse. “Off I go.”

Sveda didn’t object this time. Instead, she stood idle as Billy guided his horse past the river, struggling very little in the process. It must’ve taken him just a few seconds to cross the stream. Nothing fascinating enough to be sung about at the taverns. When he was on the other side, Billy looked to the water, then to Sveda, and offered a short grin. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”

Sveda glared at him. “You’re mad.”

“You comin’?”

There was a lot of hesitation on her part before she shook her head. “No, I mustn't leave my men behind.”

“So you changed yer mind.”

They locked eyes. Billy knew there was something she was not sharing. He found it unlikely that she would be trying to set him up for failure. It had to be something else.

“Go then,” Billy tilted his chin. “If yer lucky, the Woodland Spirit won’t catch up with you.”

Sveda’s eyes turned even sharper. “Don’t be so quick to jinx me, witcher.”

“You can handle yourself.”

With that, Billy turned to face the other half of the woods, intent on leaving the woman behind. This side appeared to be more dense, with trees that were thicker and taller. Though that was not something that easily intimidated him. He’d been to similar places - forests far deadlier. He’d faced monsters that cared very little for offerings and traditions the way this Leshen did, or used to. Elves pale in comparison to it all.

No time to waste. Billy guided his horse past the foliage, sparing any farewells to Sveda. He was not particularly worried about her. If anything, he trusted she’d be smart enough to use a shortcut back to the camp.

Night was quick to fall upon them, though the moon was not yet high enough to shine his path. Regardless, as a mutant, it was of little disadvantage to him. His cat-like vision allowed him to see everything in great detail. It was the eerie quietness of the woods that prompted him to approach its depths with acute caution. He’d started to find it extremely unnerving.

A few steps further and a sharp cutting sound caught his ears.

“What…” There was an arrow sticking out above his heart, ingrained in the leather piece that covered his chest. The edged side rested firmly against the chain mail below, painfully. It _would’ve_ killed him.

Unharmed, the witcher tentatively spoke. “Uh… I think ye lost somethin’—”

Again, another arrow cut through the air, but this time it sliced his cheek.

“Ah, shit—” he grimaced, quickly withdrawing a sword and glaring through the dark. “Can’t we talk first?”

 _“Voe'rle!”_ a female voice yelled. Elder speech. Great. _“Glaeddyvan vort!”_

Billy focused his eyes where the stranger must be hiding, exasperated. “I don’t _know_ Elder.”

Silence.

“ _Va vort a me, Dh'oine. N'aen te a dice'n_.”

“Alright, ye know what?” he paused for a minute, searching through his head for any words he’d learned in the many years he’d lived. There was one he’d become extremely familiar with - witcher. “Vatt… vatt'germ?”

“ _Vatt'ghern?_ ” the voice echoed with perfect pronunciation. Another stretch of silence followed. “ _Gwynbleidd?_ ”

“Gwyn…” Billy immediately scowled. “Really? _White Wolf?_ Do I _look_ like the fuckin’ _White Wolf_?"

After a pause, another arrow flew by, but he quickly deflected it with his sword. Billy frowned at the dark. “We could spend all night doin’ this but I ain’t really got the time.”

“One step more and you’ll gain a new hole in your head, mutant. What do you seek here? Speak!” This time, an elven man stepped in sight, dressed in light leather armor and a cap from which hung a squirrel tail, with bow and arrow in hand. The witcher found his appearance familiar. The squirrel tail suggested the elf might be Scoia’tael, a known guerrilla of non-humans. It explained why the elves were so keen on attacking human strangers. “Your kind are not welcomed here.”

“Clearly,” Billy kept his voice even but maintained his guard. “Just wanna’ talk, that’s all.”

“Talk?” the elf looked highly skeptical. Confused even. “Ridiculous.”

Billy was slightly offended by this. “Is it really?” They _really_ didn’t like outsiders. “We share a common enemy.”

“Common enemy?” the other repeated, appearing amused. “Who? Those witless, flea-ridden whoremongers you’re working for?”

“Woah,” the witcher snickered. “Calm down. I’m not workin’ _for_ ‘em,” he gave that a second thought. “Maybe _with_ ‘em. Just need to talk to yer commander. It’s important.”

The elf guffawed at the remark. “You are all the same.”

"The villagers call it the Woodland Spirit."

The elven man paused, eyes sparkling with familiarity. He knew of the creature Billy spoke of. "We do not fear such a creature."

"It kills," Billy argued. "It will yer kind, too. Eventually."

"We appease it, as they did," the stranger revealed. It seemed the villagers weren’t the only ones trying to come to terms with a woodland _monster_ . "Our offerings do the work. We live in harmony. _Caed D'yaebl_ has not taken any of us. Who it kills is not any of our concern."

The witcher found that a little hard to believe. "Really? You don't care about the innocent people it's gutted?"

"Humans have done the very same to our kind for many years, _vatt'ghern._ Some things are just meant to be."

That was quite the answer. Billy didn’t blame them. " _I_ think it's marked someone. Leshy are as territorial as they are deadly, and I'm thinkin' it might be one of you."

The elf squinted. "Who?"

Billy shook his head. "Won't know until I take a look for myself."

"I don’t trust you."

"Figured as much when I saw yer bow aimed at me... Still have me in yer sight. And I’m just not prone to doing stupid things. I can assure you of that,” Plenty might have disagreed, actually. “I'm only here to slay the monster. This is my job. The faster I get rid of it, the sooner those witless, flea-ridden whoremongers ye hate so much will be off yer hairs."

That seemed to catch the other man's attention. "I’ll be assured when you hand me your weapons. C’mon, your swords. Drop them and I’ll take you to Feanasann.”

Billy was not particularly surprised by this request. He still did as he was told, then removed the arrow from his leather chest piece. Even without his swords he was confident enough with magic. And far more convinced they'd let him go before the sun rose. He had no qualms about trusting the Scoia’tael.

At ease, the elf spoke loudly. _“Adhart!”_

Slowly, the other elves made themselves known from the trees and bushes. Bavro hadn't been exaggerating. There were at least two dozen of them. All equipped with bows and arrows as well. "Shit."

"Try anything silly and you won't live to see another day," the elven man threatened. 

The group led him further into the woods and to a remote area he was sure not many knew of. Past the trees, he spotted what he guessed to be their camp camp. But upon getting closer, he came to realize this was their _home_ . It was lit with torches and oil lamps, packed with tents and makeshift huts. There were animals, crates, crying babes and _children_ as well. As they approached, the elves inhabiting the camp paused to stare, some whispering amongst themselves about the unfamiliar stranger. 

Billy wondered if the human villagers knew, before they ran off. Bavro mentioned the elves stole frequently, which was not uncommon for small settlements like these. Not rare for the Scoia’tael either.

The elven man leading Billy through the mass waved the other elves away, dismissing them, then gestured to Billy to get off his horse. The witcher followed, patting his mare’s neck before he was taken to the biggest tent in sight. The inside was cozy, lived in, with books, furniture and surprisingly expensive looking tapestries. There, another man, elf too, looked up from a wooden desk, parchments in hand, and scowled. 

“Edrar?” He seemed baffled. “Who is this?”

“He says he’s a witcher,” the elf glared at him. “His name I do not know.”

“Uilleim,” Billy introduced himself, face straight. “Of Skellige.”

He watched as the commander eyed him carefully, taking in the sight of him. From his armor, to his swords, and lastly to the bear medallion resting against his chest. That seemed to spark some sort of interest in the man. “Vatt’ghern? Yes, I’m familiar with your kind.” He stood from his chair. “Strange. No monsters trouble us.”

“Might not trouble you, but the mercenaries’re convinced something prowls these woods. Hired me to kill it.”

“Found him wandering the outskirts of the village. _He_ claims he wishes to speak,” Edrar sneered, crossing his arms. “Of _Caed D'yaebl_ , the _Woodland Spirit_.” 

“Ah,” the commander tilted his chin, addressing the witcher once again. “Well, we have no ill will towards it. Your work here is done.”

Billy wouldn’t let go of the matter easily. “This isn’t a game. People have died.”

“People? Redanians have died. Followers of the Eternal Fire. Soldiers have died,” the man scowled. “King Radovid’s soldiers, serving the man who torments the _Aen Seidhe_ from the Great Sea to the Blue Mountains. Soldiers who joined in massacres, tortured our brothers, raped our sisters. I shan’t cry for them.” Finally, he gave his final verdict. “And we’ll not stop attacking those mercenaries. We must eat, same as you. So you’ve a choice… Leave now and forget what you’ve seen. Or die.”

“I cannot,” Billy admitted fearlessly. He _needed_ to get paid for this job. “Not yet.”

That got him a blank stare in return. Though unexpectedly, the commander turned to Edrar. “Let us speak, alone.”

Edrar looked doubtful. “Feanasann, he’s murderous -”

“He does not worry me.”

Edrar remained for a short while, then left, leaving the tent closed.

Billy was unable to contain his curiosity. “This is a nice camp you’ve built.”

It was clear that Feanasann didn’t trust him, judging by the look in his eyes. At least not yet. “To some of the elves, this is their _home_ . Scoia’tael only shares the space. Well, when need be.” Before the witcher could ask any further questions, Feanasann continued, “I’ll let you know that we are not fond of strangers. Much less _rare_ strangers, witcher. We’ve been wronged many times before.”

“I’ve been made aware already.” So far, Billy thought everything was going swimmingly considering the circumstances. “M’not lookin’ for trouble. This… _Woodland Spirit_ , it’s a Leshen. There’s a contract on its head, and I’ve taken it.”

Feanasann remained attentive. “This is a very old creature we’ve made peace with. It’s spared us our lives, and we his.”

“This monster is so powerful it’s mastered the art of marking,” Billy hoped that by describing its nature the elves would come to understand this was a very dangerous creature they were interacting with. “Whoever it may be, if nothing’s done about it, ain’t nothin’ I can do to get rid of this thing. As long as this unfortunate soul remains alive and near the settlement, the Leshen will always be reborn near its lair.”

“What you’re asking for is betrayal. The elves claim the Spirit protects them.”

“Those mercenaries out there won’t leave until the bastard stops butcherin’ everyone it sniffs up either.” This was all the witcher had left to convince the commander. “Yer mate that just left told me ye don’t like ‘em. And by the sound of it, you don’t want ‘em to blow yer cover.”

“The humans?” Feanasann winced, making a face of disgust. “They’re a pest.”

“I’m offerin’ you a solution,” Billy explained. “Let me locate who the marked person is. Once the Leshen is done with, the mercenaries will be gone as well.”

“You think it’s one of us.” With reason, the other man questioned the procedure. “What do you suppose should be done once this… marked person is found? Kill them?”

The witcher shook his head. “There’s no need. Banishin’ ‘em should do the job.”

“Banishing? One of our own? And kill the very creature we serve?” Feanasann frowned. “You’re asking for a lot, Uilleim of Skellige.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Billy said plainly. “In fact, if it’s killed some of the human villagers, who _also_ served it, I don’t doubt it would kill the people here too.”

Feanasann appeared as thoughtful as he seemed fearful. Billy guessed he must be weighing his options. Though after a while, he finally spoke up, “Why would it mark one of us? How?”

“Inborn magic,” the witcher answered simply. “The first person to frequent its lair the most. They become a part of the Leshen as well, so that if it dies, it returns.”

“None of the others go that far.”

Ah, gossip. Billy started to get a feeling something wasn’t quite right. Actually, he was under the suspicion one of the elven villagers had a lot to explain. Sadly, he doubted he would get to hear the full story. He shrugged. “Ye might be surprised.”

Feanasann appeared irritated by the turn of events. For a moment, Billy thought his offer would be turned down. But he was relieved to find that didn’t become the case. “Edrar!”

Quickly, the other elf returned, face pale with concern.

“Give him his things… and toss in something from those transports. Wise decisions should be rewarded.” Billy was more than pleased with this. “Find the marked person, witcher. But do not share why you’re here. I don’t want to cause panic.” He looked to his desk. “Edrar shall assist you. _Va fail_.”

“Very well.”

Edrar led him out of the tent, looking positively dumbfounded. Maybe even annoyed. When they were out of earshot, the armed elf hissed at him. “How did you convince him? What did you say?”

Billy raised an eyebrow. “What? Ye don’t think I’ve got charm?”

Edrar stared, then eyed him head to toe. Billy didn’t expect to be scrutinized so intensely. The elf snorted, looking away. “Elves are known to be far more pleasing to the eye.”

To the witcher, this was beyond personal. “Did ye just call me ugly?”

“You’ve got a scary mug.” That seemed to be the end of their conversation. A smart decision on Edrar’s part. Billy was near angered. “Go now. Do as you’ve been ordered. I shall watch you closely.”

“Uhuh.” Before turning his back to the elf, Billy pointed a finger at him, “M’fuckin’ beautiful, ye hear me?”

“Debatable."

To avoid further conflict, the witcher went back to the task at hand, though now with a lingering bitterness. 

Looking around the camp, Billy noted the tents were positioned in an order. The huts seemed to be where the families lived, as the Scoia’tael rebels gathered in small separate groups away from the rest. Billy wasn’t sure if it was intentional, though there was no point in lingering on that thought. There was a small clearing as well, surrounded by a fence. There, horses grazed. Beautiful horses. 

The witcher, led by curiosity, stepped closer. An elf in Scoia'tael armor stood in his way. “No closer. Nothing here for you, _vatt'ghern._ ” 

Billy frowned, unhappy that they wouldn’t even trust him to look at their horses. No matter. He continued walking down the small path in between the tents, making an effort to avoid getting too close to anyone. Most elves pretended not to see him and just carried on with what they were doing but there were others who stared coldly; others who turned away at the sight of him whispering things the witcher knew he would rather not hear.

Not too far from where he stood, Billy spotted the transports Feanasann spoke of, and his reaction was immediate. “Him,” the witcher pointed to an armed elf tending to a few crates. He was slim and dark haired, relatively young looking for his kind. Attractive, like all elves. Billy’s medallion trembled insistently just being near him. There was magic bound to the fellow. “That’s the one.”

Edrar looked over, then raised his eyebrows. He seemed surprised. “Aidaenn? Are you certain?”

“Couldn’t be more sure.”

This seemed to be the witcher’s cue to leave. A shame. Billy wanted to know what _Aidaenn_ ’s been doing outside the camp. Furthermore, he wanted to hear what the commander had to say about it. Juicy details like these were rare finds. “You can go now,” Edrar ushered him. “You should find your swords and reward with your mare.”

“Wait,” Billy frowned. “How will I know what happens to him?”

Edrar humed, thoughtful. “Well, I suppose should we get rid of him, you’ll see a raven come morn. Is that enough?”

That was as good as it could get. Billy grunted, bored. “Yeah, fine.”

+

The moon was high once the witcher returned to the mercenaries’ camp. The night was still. Most of Sveda’s men laid inebriated and useless near the fire, while very few others remained awake, though seemingly in a drunken daze. Billy thought it was probable they imagined he would've had the Woodland Spirit taken care of by now. That, or they were really this unreliable.

As Billy stepped into the warm light, one of them was quick to notice him.

“You’re back, finally! Did you get the beast?”

It was a man, ginger, with a broken nose. Billy didn’t remember him very well. All their names sounded the same. “Not yet. Just elves.”

A few others stepped close to listen, except Brenas, the same man who had been ridiculing him since he got here. A different fellow spoke, “Elves, ye say? Thought we’d rid ourselves of those vermin. So, ye gut them?”

“Elves aren’t monsters, so no,” Billy scoffed, then showed off the new pair of boots he acquired from the Scoia’tael. His last pair had been worn so bad they couldn't even be called boots anymore. These though he was fond of already. “Just had a talk with ‘em.”

They all leaned closer to take a look, eyes wide with surprise. The ginger spoke again. “Melitele’s tits! Meteorite silver? Did you steal them?”

Irritated, Billy repeated himself. “We _spoke._ Ye daft?”

“Witcher!” Past the men, Sveda stood with her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. She looked a bit disheveled and tired, as though she’d been twisting about in her bedroll. Billy could read the concern in her bloodshot eyes. Though he sensed there was something more. It didn’t look like she was worried about _him._ “You’ve returned.”

Billy remained near the drunken mercenaries, awkward. Hopefully she was not expecting a hug. “That’s right.”

She looked to the rest and seemed to hesitate. “We must speak.”

Her men quickly lost their enthusiasm, making sounds of complaint. The glare Sveda set upon them was fierce. “Clam it shut! Weren’t you all supposed to be guarding the roads?”

That got them all to quieten.

Somewhere to the side Brenas poked the fire with a charred stick. He kept his eyes on Sveda until she and Billy entered a tent and she was out of his sight.

Inside the tent Sveda let out a deep sigh. Her hand remained on her sword, her fingers playing with the tassel attached to the tip of the pommel. She stepped forward but then thought better of it and stepped back. She did that once then twice, before she finally spoke. "Did you find the marked elf?" Her eyes were glued to the witcher's face. She gave him a second to answer. "Speak!"

Sveda's impatience was nothing short of expected. She'd shown some resistance to talking to the elves, and a suspicious lack of support of Billy's plan despite having initially wanted to help. The witcher knew she would be eager to hear what he'd learned, though her reasoning behind it could be nothing more than smoke and mirrors.

Billy, however, was no snitch. The Scoia'tael cooperated and he was loyal enough to do the same. "Aye, I tore 'im asunder," he answered, only to realize the joke would probably not be appreciated. Sveda had already been quite irritated to begin with. Before she went tits-up, Billy spoke again. "It's all jests. The elves will take care of him themselves. Just not sure they'll follow my advice."

Sveda's response was instantaneous. She quickly stepped forward, the heavy thud of her foot marking the moment her hand shot forward to grab the witcher by the strap of his sword. "Tis no time for _jests_ ." She was not screaming, but her anger could be felt in every word. She was either trying to pull the witcher down or pull herself up so that their eyes were on the same level. " _Who is it?!_ "

The witcher was first dumbstruck by Sveda's hostility. He was not one to enjoy being manhandled. At least not like this. Billy could come up with a cluster of far more colorful scenarios where he would be enjoying this. But he quickly decided he'd had enough. "Gather yer damn wits."

He grabbed the woman's wrists to pull her hands off the strap, his own eyes narrowing in the process. He found her insistence unnecessary; it was clear she knew more than she was willing to share. "What's it to you?" Billy lowered his voice to keep the others from hearing. "Think it's time you tell me what's goin' on. Gettin' kind of tired of all yer jabberin'."

Sveda made a show of letting go of the leather strap rather dramatically before she tore her wrists out of the witcher's grip. She looked at him, considering whether she should trust him or not, but in the end she gave in, seeing as she had no other choice.

"There is... someone I care deeply for among the elves," she spoke evenly, careful not to show emotion, but her eyes betrayed her.

That took Billy a while to process. "What're you on about?"

Well, she was not a racist bigot like the rest of her men, at least. The witcher had considered it, seeing as she was adamant he stayed away from the elves. This was not what he expected to hear however. "What, a lover?" His tone was incredulous. "A _lover_ , Sveda? Among the Scoia'tael?"

Rather impressive, he had to admit. It seemed she spent her time here rather well. Still, elves that got along with Redanians were few and far between in the Northern Realms. He doubted these particular elves would be pleased to hear of such an affair. Much less the mercenaries. "How do you hide somethin' like that?"

"Don't you think I know?!" she snapped at him, but finally there was something free in her manner, like she wasn't holding her breath. She stepped back and took a deep ragged breath while brushing her hair away from her forehead. "Please tell me now that you know why - who was the marked one?" She looked at him and the anger from earlier was gone, there was only worry in her pained gaze.

The witcher couldn't help but think that these current events would be perfect for a romantic play at Novigrad's yard theatre. He was not entirely sure how he always got himself involved in these situations either. An elf from the Scoia'tael and a mercenary woman, lovers? Tragic.

Although he enjoyed gossip, this was not a matter he wanted to poke fun at. Billy would do better to ease her worries. Or worsening them. He actually felt _bad_ for her. "Aidaenn," he finally spoke, the corner of his lips twisted downward. "That ring a bell?"

She didn't move, she didn't answer. The second she heard the name she looked _devastated_.

"No, this can't be true," she said, voice barely above a murmur. "What name did you say?" Suddenly her voice was back. It sounded loud but shaky. "Speak it again. I did not hear right.."

It seemed she wasn’t so lucky. Judging by Sveda's reaction, Billy could tell repeating the elf's name would be pointless. He knew she heard him right. Sure she was aware, just in denial. It was a horrible coincidence, he thought. Horrible and unfair. Or maybe deep down she knew it was to be expected. How often did they meet near the Leshen's lair? 

He tried to be as gentle as someone like him could be. He was a witcher, not a mother. "It's the name they gave me, before I left. I told 'em to banish him, takin' his life would've been unnecessary. This I promise."

Sveda looked at her palms, then her feet. A hand still resting on the hilt of her sword as if this were a problem violence could easily solve. Sveda looked up at the witcher, at a loss for words. Then her eyes finally regained focus again. She gripped the handle of her sword. She had made a decision.

Sveda gave a nod to the witcher in a sign of appreciation for what he’d done. "I will go to the woods, witcher. Do not follow. I will be back come morn. If not, and the beast kills me, then that is my fate. Continue with your mission," she told him firmly, before leaving the tent.

Even if Sveda's exit was abrupt, Billy didn't set off to chase after her. He reckoned none of this was any of his business. She’d also made it clear that she didn't want his help from this point on. Even if she did, there was not much Billy could offer. He already did what he could to keep the elf alive. 

Billy sighed. This contract had been far more complicated than he'd anticipated.

He was walking out of the tent, intent on meditating for a while before the rest of the night cycled through, when he spotted a familiar man approaching. Brenas, Billy remembered. Who had made it clear that he did not favor the witcher. It didn't seem that he'd noticed Billy standing in the shadows of the moonlight, so he spoke up, not trusting the fellow. "Need somethin'?"

The man startled, obviously just noticing the witcher. He tried to mask his surprise with a stern look. "Had a matter to discuss with Sveda but it seems I've missed her yet again." Hostility could be read in his voice. "Did she think to share where she was going, witcher?"

Billy humed, feigning ignorance. He didn't trust the man. "To rest, m'sure."

Sveda's secret was not his to share. He was but a monsterslayer. Some matters just did not concern him. Even then, Sveda wasn't hurting anyone. Her taste in men might cost the woman her life, sure, but that was to blame on _politics_. "It's a little late for gossip. Ye can try tomorrow."

Brenas took a long look at the witcher and his frown only deepened. In the light of the campfire his face looked like it aged 20 years. He grunted then left the witcher without so much as a goodnight. Billy couldn’t say he was particularly hurt. Concerned though, he was.

+

Billy heard the telltale signs of the coming dawn before the sun rose. The mourning dove from the forest and the animals that were stirring awake. The chattering from the mercenaries growing louder. Then, in the near distance, a cawing raven perched on a wooden post.

It was the signal he’d been waiting for. By now, the marked elf must’ve left the Scoia’tael. He quickly assumed Sveda must’ve returned safe, too. With that in mind, he decided it’s time to set off to complete his job. He would collect his reward when he returned.

Billy had a task to destroy the Leshen totems placed around its territory. This way he was going to draw the monster out for a fight and stop it from regenerating. He made quick work of the first two, dealing with the leshen protectors - a pack of wolves. Before he destroyed the last one he braced himself for the start of a tough fight. He got his Dimeritium bombs at the ready before he initiated the fight. After all, it was _rude_. 

He made quick work of the first two, but not without a hassle. The Leshen’s protectors were quick to intervene - a pack of wolves like the one he and Sveda encountered in this very area. They were not hard to defeat. Regardless, he still braced himself for the start of a tough fight. He got his Dimeritium bombs at the ready before he destroyed the last totem, a howl echoing through the woods.

He was immediately attacked by another pack of wolves, this time more vicious. The screeching of the birds grew louder while he disposed of the wild beasts. Though when he was done he could feel the familiar pang in his muscles signaling he was growing tired from the constant attacks. The Leshen hadn’t shown itself yet, unfortunately, and he pat himself on the back for being smart enough to prepare a vial of Tawny Owl. He prayed that if the need to use all of his potions arised, his body would be able to endure it long enough before the amount poisoned him.

He strained his senses, trying to hear and locate the Leshen. The sounds were unmistakable; it shrieked and groaned, sharp enough to nearly hurt Billy’s ears. He proceeded to follow them. 

On the way, as he moved nimbly through the trees, he cast a quick _Quen_ sign to surround himself with a protective shield. It never hurt to be prepared for a surprise attack. On his back, there was an iron sword, which he used against the wolves, but now the leather scabbard next to it was empty instead. This second sword was made out of silver and he was gripping its handle with both hands. 

The witcher followed the trail until it led him to a small clearing. He entered it slowly, with caution. The forest had grown silent… then suddenly a murder of crows swooped down and attacked him. The magic shield that he placed on himself earlier did its job and protected him.

When the birds cleared out, a monstrous howl pierced his ears. He quickly turned around. 

The monster towered over him, its horns enormous, stretching far above the crown of the trees. Its head was a deer skull of pale white bone attached to a body resembling a twisted tree. It was grotesque in nature, covered with green moss from head to toe. Its arms sprouting out of its torso with a length almost as tall as its whole body, its fingers long, deadly claws. A few giant wolves were circling the beast.

The Leshen buried its claws into the ground. After a second, roots shot out from beneath the earth at an incredible speed, like knives. The attack was heavy and it would have been fatal for a regular adventurer, but the witcher was not just any man. He jumped and rolled away from the attack. His heavy armor didn't allow him a graceful landing, but nevertheless, it was a skillful dodge that had him standing on his legs in less than a second. He sprinted to the side, dodging another attack. With that move he positioned himself behind the monster. Its claws were still buried firmly into the ground; it couldn't defend itself from the silver sword slashing its back. The scream that followed was inhuman and painful. The Leshen pulled its roots out of the ground, lifted its arms above itself and turned into black smoke. 

Billy cursed under his breath - he didn’t have time to use the Dimeritium bomb.

The sound of croaking ravens echoed through the forest. 

The witcher took a stance close to the ground - he shifted his feet and spread his legs wider. He leaned forward, drawing the hilt of the sword to his middle and the tip of the edge up. It was a flexible defensive stance that allowed a quick offensive response.

“Come it an' play ye ploughin' ‘hore!” he spat before the giant wolves jumped at him. He sensed the bloodlust coming from the wolves and managed to jump out of the way in time, however the enemies were many and he was just one man. While he jumped out of the way of one he landed in front of another. The wolf threw itself at him with a vicious growl. The force with which it hit him in the chest got all of his air out. It almost managed to break his balance and bring him down where it would have been an easy job to sink its teeth into his throat. 

The witcher used the momentum to roll back and plant his feet firmer into the ground, gasping for a breath. “Damn, almost done in by a wolf,” he hissed under his breath, before slashing at another attacking beast.

He brought down a few before the rest retreated. Billy knew he only had a second before the next attack, so he took a vial out and downed a stamina potion. Then he got a Dimeritium bomb at the ready, knowing full well the Leshen was about to attack after he had driven away his wolves. There was blood on his chin, a thin line made its way down his neck.

Finally, the Leshen suddenly appeared beside him. The witcher instinctively raised a hand and moved his fingers fast, drawing an _Igni_ sign in the air - a wave of fire exploded from his palm. The monster stumbled back, its wooden body swallowed by the flames. While the woodland spirit was stunned the witcher threw the Dimeritium bomb at it. It exploded in a green light, crackling of energy in the air. 

The confused beast screeched, unable to retreat. The witcher used this opportunity to strike the Leshen with a series of fast slashing attacks. He didn’t allow it to regain its footing and to defend itself. It was clear that the beast was barely holding on, but just before Billy could strike the monster with a heavy attack, the rest of the wolves jumped in. 

The Leshen took the opportunity to hide itself among the trees, recovering from its wounds and leaving the wolves to finish the job. However, the man easily brought down the few animals. One managed to sink its teeth into his leg but was surprised to find that the witcher suffered no damage. He was covered in metal from head to toe. An attack like that was futile.

His step was heavy, his movements lacked speed, but nothing could knock him down, nor could stay unharmed from the swing of his sword.

After the last wolf was slain the warrior allowed himself a moment to catch his breath. His unnaturally sharp amber eyes surveyed the area. He spotted the monster among the trees fairly easily.

“No use hidin'!” the witcher laughed in a raspy strained manner. “Come it an' fight ye bunghole!”

He charged at the monster. The Leshen dug its claws in the dirt again, commanding too roots. Billy anticipated that and rolled away exactly when the roots shot out. He found himself beside the beast and slashed with his full strength until his muscles burned and stung. The Leshen stumbled back, but the witcher continued to bombard it until it made an attempt to turn into mist. Instead, the air cracked in green. Another Dimeritium bomb had exploded on the creature and the witcher remained relentless.

The Leshen desperately slashed with his claws. The blow landed and threw the witcher back with an incredible force. He flew back crashing against a tree. Billy cried out in pain while he tumbled down on the ground.

The Dimeritium effects finally ran out and the Leshen turned into smoke, disappearing from the witcher's sight.

Billy coughed, blood on his lips. He rolled to the side, getting up on his knees and hands. He looked around fast, spotting his sword laying a foot from him, when it was knocked out from his hand when he crashed against the tree. He coughed one last time spitting the blood from his mouth. 

His heightened senses allowed him to feel the ground underneath moving. He jumped right at the moment when roots shot up. His movements were painful and slower, but he was able to grab the sword from the ground.

He needed to drink a Swallow potion but he knew if he dropped his guard now, that potion wouldn't help him escape death even if he managed to drink it. 

He could hear more wolves moving among the trees. He needed to end this fight as fast as possible. Fortunately the Leshen attacks were predictable. Billy knew to be ready for the sudden reappearance of the monster. He spun and the Leshen appeared right in front of him. He quickly used _Igni_. The flames distracted the beast long enough for the witcher to twist his body for a heavy blow... then he brought it down with just one last heavy swing of his sword.

The Leshen screamed in agony while all its limbs were twisting and turning. It fell to the ground, body bending as the ground swallowed it. Roots darted up from its spot consuming the creature, and suddenly the witcher was thrown back once again. However, when he hit the ground, this time, he lost consciousness. 

+

Back in Novigrad, a commotion was brewing. 

The main square of the city was bustling with travelers and common townsfolk. It was a vast, intricate, labyrinth of noisy streets and alleys, its thick crowd a mix of affluence and poverty. The cobblestones were still wet with morning dew, and the air was cold and short of fresh. Even that early, the streets were packed with passing merchants and stall-keepers. The drunks and beggars frequented the poorer districts among the rats, their paths muddy with soil and piss.

In the distance, a band of bards played a popular song from the taverns. The public cheered, their muffled voices mixed with the general chattering and laughter of the residents. This far into the eastern part of the city, Sveda hid from prying eyes. Away from _them_.

Her heart pounded heavy against her chest, anxiety creeping through her limbs. She was afraid she’d be seen and recognized, taken for a traitor. Though the whores paid her no heed, nor did the outcasts. Some of the women even offered their services. But Sveda hastily turned them down, keeping her coin safe in her purse.

She took a turn into an empty alley, pausing when she saw she was alone. Not trusting this to be the right path, she righted her footing to go the other way, only to be startled by a hooded man much taller than her.

A bandit. Her hand quickly wrapped around the hilt of her sword, but she was not given time to draw her weapon. “Sveda, wait.”

The stranger peeled off his hood to reveal his face, hazel eyes and sharp ears coming into view. Sveda, now at ease, felt her heart flutter. She let go of her sword. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Aidaenn offered a handsome smile that she was quick to cover with a gentle kiss. It was short lived, but sweet and burning with joy. They didn’t have a lot of time to waste. “Did they spare you first?” Sveda finally asked, pulling away from her lover’s lips. 

The elf looked amused when he spoke. “I told you they would.” A hand rested above the woman’s hip, comforting. “Would have ran anyway.”

“I know,” Sveda smiled, though it faltered. “But if they let you go—”

“It’s with an escort,” Aidaenn finished for her, looking over his shoulder before his eyes settled on hers once more. “They want to take me to another camp, near Crow’s Perch. But if we leave first, it won’t be necessary.”

Doubt settled in Sveda’s stomach and she frowned. “They will never welcome you back.”

“Had I ran first it would’ve been all the same.”

“But you have a choice,” Sveda argued, feeling as though she was in the way. “You’ve always been so passionate about the Scoia’tael’s cause—”

“And will always be,” Aidaenn interrupted, “Just not without you. I want freedom. The Scoia’tael… its purpose is muddled with acts of increasing cruelty. They see no peaceful solution to the prejudices of the world. Not anymore. They would’ve killed those villagers, Sveda. And the travelers that woodland monster slaughtered. What use is the cause if we become the very thing we hate? They would order me to kill you.”

There was no doubt in Sveda’s mind that she _wanted_ to remain by his side. Even if she doubted, she straightened her back and grabbed her lover’s hand. “The witcher should arrive anytime soon, for his coin. I already witnessed him fight before. I _know_ he must’ve done his job. Let me speak with him before we go. After all, it is because of him that we are here.”

Aidaenn wasn’t very convinced that it was a good idea. But for her, he gave in. “Where should I meet you again?”

“The bee farm. Meadworks. It’s close enough to the gates.” Sveda squeezed his hand. “I’ll be there.”

Instead of talking, her elf gave her a parting kiss. Just as gentle as the first, and not any less passionate. Like that, the lovers parted ways and Sveda strode to the nearest Inn, certain she would find master Kruegel there.

On her way there, she didn’t expect Brenas and half of her men to block her path. 

“No need to make haste, Sveda,” Brenas had a nasty look on his face. The rest weren’t showing the same amount of hostility. Instead, they appeared confused and unsure. “You act as though you’re late for a meeting.”

Sveda tried to hide her fear as she took in the sight of them. “What is this about?”

Brenas’ gaze was cold, more so than usual. There’d always been unresolved conflict between them. Plenty of arguments and disagreements to put their loyalty at odds. He’d confronted her before, just never with an audience. “You left your post many a time. A good leader wouldn’t do that, don’t you think?” When Sveda didn’t answer, wary of his accusations, Brenas continued, “Restless, I thought. Perhaps she’s _restless_ , but I knew better.”

“You’re speaking nonsense—”

“You lie!” Brenas’ yelling echoed through the streets. The rest of the mercenaries exchanged fleeting glances. “You paid the witcher, didn’t you? To cover up your facade. You left nearly every night, hid in the woods, and for what?”

Brenas had been watching her. She should’ve known. Sveda continued to hide her exasperation. “What are you implying?”

“I’m sure you’ve been conspiring with those elves,” Brenas spat. “An awful crime under the government of Redania.”

Sveda, overwhelmed with anger, bit back. “Novigrad is a free city!”

“She doesn’t deny it!” the man laughed, addressing his new following. This time, the mercenaries appeared more convinced, even disappointed. Brenas regarded Sveda with a scowl. “Don’t act so fucking stupid. The Church of the Eternal Fire would burn them alive all the same. Their sense of moral superiority is tiresome. They’re common bandits and murderers. Who hides there, Sveda? Scoia’tael?”

“Where is your proof?” She left the last question unanswered, hatred surging through her. “You could never accuse me of such falsehood!”

Something malicious crossed Brenas’ eyes. “No? Perhaps the soldiers of this Kingdom would find more in those woods.”

It took Brenas threatening the safety of the elves for Sveda to become silent. Unfortunately, that spoke volumes to the mercenaries that used to follow her command. It became clear to her that this was an argument she’d already lost. They’d taken Brenas' side and abandoned hers. There was nothing she could do.

She looked at them, hopeless, but they didn't give in. A different man spoke up. “Is what he says true?”

Sveda felt trapped, and cursed herself for not having left when she first had the chance. She doubted Aidaenn was within the vicinity to aid her. So she took matters into her own hands and deliberately reached for her sword, a move that quickly alerted the men before her.

Before a fight ensued, a gravelly voice interrupted. _“Is what true?”_

It was the witcher, dragging himself into view with tired limbs. He looked like he'd been properly _rammed_ by a horse. Bloody and dirty, hair horribly tangled. Alive, nonetheless. 

They all stared at him, frozen in place. Though it took very little time for him to analyze what was going on. He blinked. “What the fuck is this about?”

Brenas was the first one to speak. “Get the soldiers!” he ordered one of the men. “He should _burn_ for helping this whore.”

As one of the mercenaries ran off to spread the news, Billy looked to Sveda with outstretched hands, aggravated. 

“We’re up shit creek, that’s what!” Sveda finally withdrew her sword, her eyes wild. “I’m sorry witcher, but today, we will have no peace.”

“Shit,” Billy cursed, exhausted as all hell. He wanted his damned coin. Now he was getting another fight instead. He armed himself as well. “ _Shit!_ ”

A small group of soldiers came running to greet them inside the narrow alley, seeming a bit confused. Brenas pointed to the two culprits. “The witcher! He’s a _monster_ ! He’s been using _magic_ to exploit my men!”

Billy didn’t have time to be concerned with what Brenas was saying. He was a piece of horse shit anyway. Nor was he worried about the soldiers that were still just spectators to what was happening. He was too busy defending himself from the blows he was receiving from the mercenaries - the _same_ men he shared a fire with the night before.

Swords clashed with a distinctive ring. 

The witcher was still exhausted from his fight with the Leshen, but he could still swing a blade. Those blows were certainly easier to parry, but it still took the wind out of him. Sveda fought in her own corner, wielding her sword with speed and precision. But she still pulled back on her swings, trying not to kill her old comrades, shouting for them to stop this madness. Billy didn’t have this kind of luxury. He was too tired to be able to calculate his strength - he was guided by instinct, fighting habits built for over sixty years.

He parried, then slashed and his blade struck true - unfortunately. The mercenaries fell back one by one, some gravely injured, some scared for their life, and with reason. It didn’t take long before the witcher took a life, and that was when the soldiers rushed him in unison. Metal plates bashed him from all sides, cornering him until he was too exhausted to hold on any longer. Before he knew it, he found himself on the ground, the clicking of the cuffs around his wrists too loud for his sensitive ears.

“Lay still, mutant!” one of the soldiers yelled, panting to boot. “You’re under arrest for—”

“ _Fuck off_ ,” Billy cussed under his breath, forehead pressed against the dirty cobblestones. He wiggled, but it was of no use. The soldiers had disarmed him. “Plowin’ bastards.”

“Take him to the cells!”

“What about the woman?” someone asked, confused.

“What woman?”

Whoever was the voice of authority spoke, “For fuck's sake, go find her!” The echo of footsteps faded down the alley. “And get the medics! We have wounded men!”

As the soldiers began to lay off him, one by one, the witcher spotted Brenas kneeling a few feet away from him. He was bleeding, grinning like a mad man. Even if he was in pain, his crazed eyes were wide open with euphoria. “The flames of the Eternal Fire will purify you, witcher!” he claimed, his smile bloody. “They will save you from your demonic ways!”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elder Speech translation:
> 
>  _Voe'rle_ \- Stop, halt  
>  _Glaeddyvan vort!_ \- Drop the swords!  
>  _Va vort a me, Dh'oine. N'aen te a dice'n._ \- Get away from me, human. I won't say anything to you.  
>  _Vatt'ghern_ \- Witcher  
>  _Gwynbleidd_ \- White Wolf  
>  _Caed D'yaebl_ \- Forest Devil  
>  _Adhart!_ \- Forward!  
>  _Aen Seidhe_ \- People of the Hills or Hill Folk  
>  _Va fail_ \- Goodbye


	3. The Trail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone jumps in to read, we would like to point out that most of the details regarding the universe are based off the books, games, and pure speculation. The timelines of certain events might be inaccurate and might not match up to canon. We try, but we are not perfect, unfortunately ):

The witcher woke from sharp pain.

His muscles quivered and burned. Every single ache soared when he moved. His arms were stretched open, pulled upwards; he was left there long enough for his shoulders to grow numb. Cuffs dug into his wrists - wrists that were bruised from holding his weight while he… slept?

A strained grunt escaped his lips when he attempted to stand on his equally useless legs, his bare feet touching cold stone. His eyelids were heavy, and turned blinking his eyes open into a strenuous feat. The second he did however, the light from the torches pierced his sensitive cat-like pupils and caused him to hiss in pain. 

He shielded his gaze.

More pain announced itself - this time on his back. It was jarring. His skin throbbed. He felt wet, cold fabric pressed against his shoulder blades, glued to wounds he did not remember receiving. They pulsated, and the moment he moved, the fabric peeled off his skin with a tear that caused his jaw to grow tight and his vision to blur.

He slowly looked up once his eyes had adjusted to the light, and was greeted by a row of iron bars built into stone walls. He was locked in a cell, like a bloodthirsty animal. They had weakened him just as they would any beast before pushing it into an arena for battle, too wary to test their true luck. Billy knew he had little chances of escaping in his condition. 

He could hear the footsteps long before a pair of men appeared before him - guards in uniforms bearing red and white colors, patrolling the corridor. The one holding a torch stopped in front of the witcher's cell, eyes growing as wide as plates.

“Look there - he’s awake!”

Billy couldn’t concentrate enough to focus on the man's face, but he could hear the nasty smile in his voice. Next he heard the sound of metal, the clicking of keys, turning locks...

“You daft?! Don’t go in there!”

The squeak of a door opening, metal scraping stone...

“Shut it. He’s in chains, can’t do anything.”

Footsteps getting closer before a man stepped into his space.

He stood in front of the witcher, staring with a mean look in his eyes. His beard was sticky and reeked of dwarven mead. His grin widened, yet he spoke no words. 

A fist flew at Billy’s face.

Pain exploded across his jaw, sharp and awful. It further dulled his memory and thoughts. Made him less susceptible to fighting back. The other man must have known, because his fist collided with the witcher’s cheekbone next, as if attempting to turn his brains into porridge.

The witcher dragged out a groan and the guard paused to laugh with mirth, turning to his colleague. “See? He’s like a flaccid prick.”

Less cautious, the second guard approached, stopping to stand beside the other. They stood there in silence, closely watching the wounded man, before one of them spoke, “He’s ugly, ain’t he? Hadn’t seen one of his kind before.”

“He sure is.” Fingers slid into the tangled hair on the crown of the witcher’s head and _pulled_ , forcing Billy to look at them. His pupils fought to focus on the two, but those efforts soon became futile. He was exhausted and dehydrated, his heightened senses only further irritating him. “Look at those eyes. Like a demon’s. These freaks were made to be like this.”

“Do you enjoy it, witcher? Being a murderer?” When the man himself didn’t answer, one of the guards slapped him across the face. It stung. “Answer.”

Despite himself, Billy mumbled a response, throat dry. “I only kill monsters.”

They both laughed. “Should’ve offed yourself then.”

It was a cruel joke, one that was accompanied with a solid punch to his gut. Billy coughed, blood dripping down his chin, and the guards’ gleeful cackles filled his ears. He didn’t have the strength or voice to answer. He was too fatigued, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in _months_.

The guards grew bored of beating him, for now, and walked away, careful not to get caught.

The witcher shut his eyes tight, trying to piece his mind back together despite the dull pain pounding beneath his skull. His earliest memory involved the streets of the city of Novigrad, of the fighting that took place with Sveda by his side… he never got to claim his reward after busting his ass fighting a beast he should’ve spared. He went through all that work for nothing.

A string of blood and spit hung from his chin, stretching, then finally dripped on the stone below.

He remembered striking and slashing, the mercenaries falling to the ground, then the guards surrounding him with their steel shields. They overpowered him with brute strength and number… but after that his memory was hazy. They must have struck the back of his head. He could barely remember being dragged to jail, and had even less memories of being chained or beaten. He had no idea how much time had passed. They clearly took advantage of that though, like cowards.

Another laugh echoed down the corridors, the voices of the guards now distant. They had left him to bleed and heal on his own, a process that would be slow with the constant beatings and the absence of healing potions. Witchers healed fast, but he was no immortal. The guards caught him at his lowest, and made sure to keep him that way. Like this, Billy wouldn’t have the strength in him to even will an ounce of magic out of his fingers.

Rest - some rest would help. A few hours of meditation to encourage his body to regenerate. Or at least, however long the guards allowed him to be.

Beside him, the witcher’s ears were able to register some shuffling of clothes. Then, after a minute, a voice spoke, _“Waitin’ for a lull?”_

This voice was different. Drained and toneless. Billy’s eyes blinked open before he took a glance from the corner of his eyes, spotting a man in another cell. This stranger only wore breeches. He was thin, no older than thirty, with shaggy hair and rugged skin. A weathered cellmate. Unchained.

Billy did not answer, too tired for conversation. Though this was not something that stopped the stranger from speaking again. “What’d you do to get their goat? They’ve beaten you black and blue.”

The witcher's movements were strained, slowed from pain. He twisted his neck to settle his bloodshot eyes on the man, and ran his tongue over his teeth before spitting the coppery substance from his mouth. “I just want some damn peace,” he answered, his voice resembling a growl. It became clear to him how dry his throat was. “... and water.”

The man let out a snort, a sound that boarded on humorous despite their dire circumstances. The disingenuous grin on his lips suggested Billy was being mocked. "You're better off dreaming of it. The guards won't take pity." He inched closer to the bars dividing their cells, and squinted at the mutant. The cellmate's eyes were sharp and inquisitive, as if admiring a rare rock. "You're a witcher, aren't you? Is that why they dragged your arse down here?"

Billy swallowed back a laugh. "Pretty much..." he answered with bitter humor. He coughed painfully, spitting again. "Made the mistake to try and help someone..." 

He actually hoped Sveda had gotten out of Novigrad alive. He tried not to think about her, he’d done that plenty enough.

"Ah," his cellmate clicked his tongue, then shook his head with half-hearted disapproval. "That's a mistake commonly made by amateurs, witcher. Freaks like us? We can't trust no one."

Perhaps he was trying to imply he wasn't human so that Billy would need to guess. Act interested. Though unfortunately, the witcher was too drained to investigate further. In fact, he wasn't curious enough either. Obvious with the way he made no effort to engage. 

The stranger must have been deprived of the pleasure of talking to anyone, because he pressed further. "You're bound to rot here. _We_ are. If we're lucky, the rats might only have at us after we're dead."

“There must be a trial?” Billy mumbled, words turning into a question on the tail end. “How long have I been here?” 

Talking was taking a strain on him, so he figured he didn’t have time for pointless chit-chat. The witcher knew it wouldn’t be long before his injuries got infected and the bacteria began to eat away at his skin. His mutations would allow him to survive longer than the average man, but all things had their limits and he didn’t want to test this. He had to devise a plan, and fast.

"Eugh, I've lost any sense of time," his cellmate complained, waving a hand. "It's been a day, or two, or more. Fuck do I know."

There was a short pause in between answers that felt longer to the witcher. His patience wore thin, and so did his strength. 

"There will be no trial for us," the man finally spoke up, voice empty. Billy raised his gaze to say something, but only saw himself in the place of his cellmate. A perfect copy of his entire being, with blonde tangled hair and bloody teeth - not the weathered man from before. Billy stared as the other continued, "We don't get such things. That damned Church has doomed us all. They rule this city. Free city." He scoffed. "Another fellow here starved before he was remembered. That is our fate."

The witcher blinked hard, sure he had to be hallucinating. He couldn’t be delirious from his wounds, however. Not yet. It would take days before the fever settled into his skin.

“Ye are…” Billy took more time than usual, but he finally made the connection. “...a doppler.” A small smile twisted his lips upward. Dopplers were creatures, also known as vexlings or changelings. Beings able to take on the form of any humanoid or animal they pleased. “Ye think’s wise showing yerself to a witcher?” he tried to laugh, again, but instead coughed in pain.

His copy grinned back at him. A new pair of amber eyes shone in the dim lighting of their cells. The similarities were uncanny. "What use is it to hide?" He spread his arms, gesturing to their surroundings. "It is why I'm here. What will you do? Kill me?" A laugh escaped him - Billy's own laughter. It did not seem to pain him. "Might do me a favor."

“Wearin’ mah face?” The witcher stiffly shook his head. “There are easier ways to beg for a beatin’.” If the doppler wasn’t harassed by the guards just for being a monster, then seeing him _look_ like the witcher would definitely get him some attention - not the good kind. “If ye can turn into me, why not turn into a mouse and leave?” 

The doppler laughed. “Wish it was that easy. Dimeritium in the bars,” he gestured toward them. “Can’t go near them and maintain a form.”

Billy's eyes moved to the bars of his own cell, realizing that maybe this was the reason why he couldn’t use magic. “ _Shit._ ” 

“Shit’s right,” his copy answered.

The witcher thought back to what the doppler had said earlier. “What did ye mean when ye said there won’t be a trial? This is Novigrad, ain’t it? Not some village in the middle f’nowhere.”

The doppler furrowed his brow, quiet for a while. Then fixed the witcher with a quizzical look in his eyes. Cat eyes. "The Church of Eternal Fire reigns this city, didn't you know? The citizens, its soldiers -" He shook his head and scowled with disdain. "They'll wring the necks of any non-human and mask it with their hate for magic. They won't favor you. They hate your kind too. They'll rather watch you grow thin until you're worn down to the bone. So don't expect a trial. The chances are slim to nil."

The witcher spat a curse under his breath then went quiet. His gaze moved toward the iron bars, trying to come up with a plan, find a weakness somewhere… just so that he wouldn’t die in this hole. But he was too tired to think.

“We’ll see about that...” he told the doppler, knowing full well there wasn’t anyone who knew him or cared enough to bail him out. 

Finally, his cellmate remained quiet. It gave way to the distant chatter of the talking guards, and the persistent ringing of his ears. The silence was deafening, almost unnerving to the witcher. Like the ache he couldn’t roll away from his shoulders, and the sharp pain that tugged at the fibers of his wrists.

It was like this that Billy became too exhausted to keep his eyes open for long. Sleep took over him, a heavy, unavoidable sleep. He was too weak to fight it. Too tired to keep talking. He hadn’t felt so fragile and helpless in a long time. Last must’ve been when he was still a boy in training, young and reckless, with a knack for getting hurt.

When he woke up again, it was not because of his numb hands and throbbing arms. He startled suddenly, slightly more alert, but not feeling any better. His mouth was salty and dry. His eyes burned. Someone banged on the cell bars, again, and the witcher looked up.

“Wake up, freak,” demanded one of the soldiers from before. Next to him stood another man. “You’ve got a visitor.”

It took Billy some time to come back to his senses. He even felt his body protest against the effort, not yet fully recovered. By the time he was able to make out who the visitor was, the guard had already left, and Kruegel stood on the other side of the cell.

Billy sighed, relieved to see a familiar face. Though filled with doubt. “‘ere to spit on my face ?”

Kruegel was dressed in an impeccable blue doublet, yet he wore worn black pants and leather boots stained with mud. His black hair was combed back, every strand in its designated place. His expression was puzzled.

"Come now, witcher," he said with a pained tone. "Do you really believe me to be such a bastard?"

After he received no answer from the witcher, only a scowl, he quickly continued.

"I can see why you're not in a talking mood. Just let me say this. I'm truly saddened by what happened. I was hoping to be able to rely on your services again in the future. It is truly a tragedy that we can't develop our business relationship further. It would have been beneficial to both of us... and I did like you a lot, Billy. There are not many people I can say that about." 

Billy watched closely; his ears caught the steady rhythm of Kruegel's beating heart. If his witcher senses weren't betraying him, the man was being honest. The fact supported his words and made them sincere, not a trickster like the mercenaries he'd hired. Though even then, they sounded more like parting words than an offer to help.

The witcher supposed this was meant to be the outcome. Although he felt helpless, he wound up accepting the other's explanation anyway. 

"Got the job done," Billy offered, hanging his head low between his shoulders. His neck hurt too much to keep his chin up. "Wouldn't trust the men ye hired if I were you."

"I have already concluded my business with them," Kreugel answered with a stone expression. No sympathy could be read in his eyes. His gaze fell to the floor as he fiddled with the cuffs on his doublet, then he lifted his head once more. "I'm here to apologize to you," he said firmly. "I did all I could to get you out of this place... sadly you have angered people I cannot yet touch. I've managed, however, to arrange for you to get fresh water and food three times a day."

He tried to smile, but there was disappointment that could be read in his demeanor. Probably disappointment in himself. 

"I wanted to at least provide you with some luxuries if nothing else. I hoped to be of more help... but alas."

Billy's eyes shone with interest. He was hungry - _starving_. He needed to be fed in order to aid his healing process. Only then he would have a chance in escaping his dim-lit cell. Perhaps Kruegel was aware of this, or his intentions were simple. There was no doubt that Billy was grateful either way, regardless of his situation.

His gaze softened. "Not much ye can do," A harsh truth. "But this, I will not forget."

It was his way of saying thank you. He had nothing but respect for the other man now, knowing he wouldn't have known of Brenas' plan. This thought brought the witcher to speak again. "Sveda? What of her?"

"The mercenaries’ commander?" the man in the blue doublet mused. "I have not heard anything of her since the brawl. There is a bounty on her head from here to Oxenfurt, but my guess is that the lass is long gone."

Billy let out a breath, straightening his back so that his hands wouldn't pain him so much. "Least all this shit wasn't in vain." She must have ran the second she saw her chance. A smart choice. The witcher burned with anger, but he didn't blame her for abandoning him once his blood-thirst overcame her old comrades. What benefit would it have been for her? Locked up and left to starve next to some Skellige roughneck?

"Perhaps,” Kreugel answered, tone serious. "I'm glad that I could bring you some good news."

The clacking of metal could be heard from down the corridor. Kreugel looked to the side and a few seconds later a guard stepped into view. "Your time is over."

Kruegel met the witcher's eyes one last time, saddened that they had to part ways in such terms. Although he was a man of generous wealth, he was not a man of power. He had no voice against the authorities of Novigrad, and no faith in the Church of Eternal Fire. 

"I bid you farewell, Billy." He sounded resigned. The witcher nodded in acknowledgement, and the other man shook his head, the corner of his lips twisting into a frown. "Melitele have mercy on you..."

The guard led Kruegel out, once again leaving silence in Billy's company. Like this, it suddenly occurred to the witcher that he was born a lonely man, and was bound to die lonely.

His cellmate snickered from the darkness of his own cell. "Lucky fuckin' bastard."

It came from a place of envy. Billy chose not to respond.

+

It must've been hours. A day, or two, or more. He'd lost all sense of time, just like his now quiet companion.

Billy was no stranger to being despised. Most villagers flinched with fear when they saw him on the road, merchants scowled with disgust when he approached them for their wares. Usually, the people of the Northern Realms were reluctant to give him their coin, having heard awful tales of witchers and their inhuman nature. To them, he was a monster and _the_ monsterslayer.

Even as the doppler avoided him, sleep became impossible to find. He tried to stand upright to allow his wrists to rest, hands a shade of purple he knew could soon be fatal if he wasn't uncuffed. Meditating like this proved hard to achieve. Especially with the guards playing cards somewhere near.

_"Why do you keep drawing cards? Your hands are full!"_

_"I've played spy cards, you bloody moron. Have you never played gwent before?"_

Billy listened with jealousy, upset that his own deck was most likely taken by some Redenian soldier incapable of playing a good hand. He worked really hard on collecting those when he traveled across the realms. He would no longer be able to enjoy such simple things.

Minutes later, one of the guards returned to greet him with a wooden plate. It was almost empty - a few scraps of bread, roasted chicken and potatoes. They had eaten the food Kruegel promised he would receive. It was of no surprise to the witcher. "Here's your banquet," Billy could smell they'd been drinking too. " _Your Highness._ "

He laughed, stumbling into the cell to leave the remains of Billy's dinner on the dirty floor. Still no water. But the man was smart enough to release the mutant off his cuffs. Not without a solid punch to the stomach first though. Billy's legs had become so flimsy he immediately fell to his knees, then to his side, and heaved in a cough. 

The relief on his muscles became so overwhelming, Billy laid like that for a while, body slack like a doll's. The guard left him to help himself to the little food he was offered. 

After some time, a piece of bread rolled into the doppler's cell. 

The man stared, then scrambled for it. He turned to face the witcher.

"Eat," was all Billy was able to say. He gnawed on his own share, then slept before his cellmate could express any amount of gratitude. 

+

He woke up again, groggy and more dehydrated than before. Though he did so to voices echoing down his cell, not to the banging of metal bars. He strained his hearing, curious. _"Where's the witcher?"_

Another visitor, it seemed. But not a voice Billy recognized.

_"We should talk about that sum first..."_

_Greedy, aren't we?"_

_“It ain’t greed, it's just proper entre...preneurship, innit?”_ there was a struggle with the word but the man managed to get it out right.

The voices got quieter, muffled. There was the sound of a coin falling against a wooden table, the happy jingle of it filling a pouch. Billy could almost hear the smile of the guard. _“How generous of you, Viscount.”_ No negotiations followed, which meant that the purpose of the coin was to distract and it had done its job. _“Right this way.”_

Billy could hear the clacking of the metal plated boots and another set that sounded softer, approaching.

He sat up, muscles aching and tense from when he'd been sleeping on the floor. Billy had no idea how to prepare himself for whoever his new visitor was, so he simply waited - caught the familiar whiff of rich perfume as they came closer.

Two new strangers stopped to stand before the witcher, one the actual jailer here in place of the guards, and the other, a noble.

Billy hadn't seen this man before. He wore red expensive robes, and a permanent frown on his face. He was tall, with good posture and a long nose - possibly in his forties. He didn't smell like he'd ever spent a day in the village, or been anywhere near a peasant, really. 

His visitor wrinkled his nose in disgust at the sight of him, likely disturbed by the state of the witcher. But did not complain. The jailer snickered, then addressed the noble. "That's him, just don't get too close to the bars. Heard he killed some prick downtown."

The jailer proceeded to leave them alone, and the silence the witcher and the noble shared was nothing short of uncomfortable. Billy had little to say to him, even as the stranger watched him closely, his gaze judgmental. Maybe Billy had been turned into a spectacle for extra coin.

Then finally, the noble spoke, "Do you desire anything?"

“To get the fuck outta here,” the witcher answered, voice hoarse. It was a miracle he even managed to speak. He couldn’t even remember the last time he drank any water. He was silent for a second before he remembered to add, “. _..please_?” but the word left his mouth in such a way he sounded unsure of its meaning.

Billy could only imagine this person was here to make himself feel superior and important. Or maybe to get him out of there on a whim - so why not try his luck. Being direct never hurt, right?

Amusement crossed the noble's eyes, but he did not smile. "It could be arranged."

 _At a prize._ Billy knew this. No one would help a witcher from the goodness of their hearts. Certainly not a noble. They were as stingy as they were greedy. This was yet another man who wanted his services, like most did. 

Billy waited for the catch, but it never came. Instead, the noble reached into a leather satchel attached to his hip and withdrew a canteen. He offered it through the bars, ignoring the warning the jailer had given him. "Drink."

The witcher was wary, and eyed the canteen suspiciously. He knew that if something seemed too good to be true, backpedaling was the best option. First a possible agreement to get him out, now water?

This man might have come just to fuck around with him. He could be giving him poison... but the witcher’s hands moved before he could stop himself, and snatched the canteen from the noble’s grip. It was cold to the touch, heavy. He smelled it before he pressed it to his lips. There was no scent to it. It was just water. Clean, refreshing water.

He was tempted to drink the whole thing dry in one breath, but he knew that he needed to control himself. It took everything he had to drink slowly and in small sips, but his parched throat felt better right away. He almost groaned in satisfaction.

He stopped drinking, saving some for later. He had already decided he wasn't returning the canteen.

"So what's the catch?" Billy asked, finally having some of his voice back. He cleared his throat. "Ye want me to suck yer cock or somethin’? Cause I don't do that sorta thing."

His cellmate, the doppler, snorted out a boisterous laugh before stopping abruptly. 

The noble kept his composure, but looked somewhat insulted, and sounded far more disgusted. Billy must have struck a nerve. "I assure you, witcher. There are brothels I would rather go to, and... company I would rather seek."

 _Women_ , Billy guessed. This was a married man too, judging by the metal band on his ring finger. It wasn't strange for a wedded noble to entertain the thought of bedding whores. Monogamy wasn't particularly popular.

"There is a matter I think you could help me with. A... family matter," the noble explained, waving a hand. Not a _monster_ matter, then. "Many have failed to aid me. But you, you are experienced, am I correct?"

The witcher sat up in his place, leaning back on the stone wall, careful not to put any weight on the wounds on his back. He looked the nobleman up and down, wondering what family matter needed solving by a witcher.

“What does this problem entail?” he asked straight out. Whatever it was, he knew he would have to agree to help if he wanted to leave this place. That meant he wasn’t in a position to haggle, but he still needed to know the details.

The noble analyzed him carefully. “My son’s been missing,” and, as if it were not that big of an issue, he added, “for seven years.”

This was not the kind of problem that concerned witchers. Unless there was a suspicion of a beast being involved with the disappearance, searching for someone that’s been gone for that long was not a typical job for a monster hunter. Usually, the missing person would be pronounced dead, or at least, under different circumstances, Billy would guess this was probably the case.

He couldn’t risk his luck now, as he was sure the other man wasn’t looking for reassurance of any sort - so he said nothing.

“His body was never found. As you can imagine, I have my doubts on his whereabouts.” The noble did not show any emotion. Either time healed such a loss, or he was genuinely not affected by the disappearance of his own son. “You hunt monsters. Finding him shouldn’t trouble you much.”

Billy didn’t want to say anything that would make the man rethink his decision of getting him out of the dungeon… but seven years was _a lot_ of time. He had, in the past, taken up tracking contracts - it wasn't a job he couldn’t do. He even considered himself quite good at it. 

But Billy wanted to tell him that no one that’s been missing that long, would return. Had it only been a few weeks, he might’ve. But the boy would’ve been a puddle of darkened blood and a pile of weathered bones, gutted like a pig in the woods. A frequent cause of death between the common folk. But this was a nobleman’s son, a boy who shouldn’t have wandered - _couldn’t_ have wandered - into the woods. Or into a cave. Or a monster’s nest. Because they were all too preoccupied with their feeble attempts of living normal lives in their sheltered homes.

It was very possible that the boy was now a worn out skeleton, though that was not something he wanted to tell this man. Not because he seemed concerned, but because Billy’s own ass was on the line.

He knew that if he refused, then he would rot in here for what remained of his life, which wouldn’t be exceedingly long. It bothered him, but… this was a contract like any other, he just didn’t have the option to refuse it. 

Seven years might have passed, but he always found the people he looked for one way or another. The boy had to be somewhere, rotten or breathing.

“You won’t find a better tracker,” the witcher said with confidence. He didn’t want to promise anything. He hoped just stating the facts would be enough. “Of that ye can be sure.”

"Mm," the noble hummed, then smiled pleasantly. It was not a friendly smile. But rather a mischievous one. The glint in his gaze was that of a manipulative person. There was no doubt he knew the witcher was in no position to turn down the offer. "We understand each other, then. I will give you the rest of the details after I've bailed you. You must understand transactions like this take time. You're no regular human, and no Redanian citizen." He'd guessed from the witcher's accent. "Furthermore, I must speak with the Security Bureau. Rest assured, however, that you won't be here for long."

All that Billy understood from that was that soon he would be free, he didn’t care much for the bureaucracy behind it all. 

“I’ll just wait here then,” he said with a smile, lifting the canteen up as if for a toast and then bringing it to his lips.

The nobleman, who's name Billy didn't even get, just squinted at him before leaving without a word. The doppler didn't waste time to make himself known, once again. "I've heard of him."

Billy looked over, caught off guard with his mouth still full with water. "Hmm?"

"The kid," his cellmate clarified. "His missin" posters were all over the city some years back."

That perked his interest. The witcher decided to start his investigation now. "Do ye know anythin' of him?"

After a short pause, the doppler shrugged. "Nah, not really."

Billy huffed with disappointment. 

+

The witcher thought it must have been at least weeks when he was finally allowed to leave his cell. The guards informed him that, through an "agreement" involving the Chancellor of Security, he had apparently given his word of _honor_ to be set free under certain conditions. Billy bristled at the revelation, knowing full well that was not something he was in direct control of. But the guards laughed at him. 

So, freedom under terms.

When he was dragged out by a pair of guards the scenery was rather anticlimactic. The cobblestones of the streets were wet and slippery beneath his shaky steps. He'd expected to enjoy some sunlight, but was instead greeted by a cloudy sky and the stinking air. Still, the air seemed to him the freshest he’s ever tasted, and the cloudy sky was almost beautiful compared to the stone wall he was forced to stare at for days. 

He was weak after spending so much time in the dungeon. He was kept in chains, constantly beaten, denied food and water, then later survived only on scraps. It was a grueling experience and any regular man wouldn't have been able to walk out of there on his own two feet. Only reason the witcher managed to do so was because the guards _dragged_ him out.

Billy was tired, hungry, and he knew the wounds on his back needed urgent tending to. He was told by the guards to collect his belongings on his way out, but he was _already_ out. He was struck by the sudden realization that maybe he wouldn’t be able to get any of his things back. They certainly wouldn't take pity.

Before he had any time to think further into his own hopeless situation, he was greeted by a stern looking man in simple but elegant clothing.

“I’m the steward of House Heitan,” the man introduced himself. “You must be the gentleman I’m here to collect.”

The witcher just stared at the man, unsure of what the hell he had been saying to him. “Who are you?”

The man seemed mildly irritated by the question but he kept his composure. 

“I work for the _Viscount_ . The man who, as they say, _‘bailed’_ you, sir Witcher, out. I will escort you to the manor and provide you with any assistance needed for your health recovery.” 

Billy just looked at him, surprised someone had been waiting for him. Though also too weak to protest.

“You can leave everything to me. I have already collected your belongings. Then, if you will...” the man led Billy to the side of the building where a carriage was waiting. He helped him to get in. Once inside, sitting in a cushy seat, Billy felt himself start to drift off during the ride. Knowing that he would be taken care of, not having to think about survival anymore somehow drained away the last of his strength.

He was brought to a manor south of the city. This was the nobleman's home, apparently. It was tall, wide, with multiple floors. The gardens outside were well tended to, accompanied by a trickling fountain and pecking birds. 

He wondered how it was possible to be so filthy rich. 

The witcher was led inside by the steward, not given the option to explore - not that he had the strength to do so anyway. He was brought to a room - a bedroom with a small table and comfortable chairs in the sunniest spot. Beside it, a bookcase with more books than Billy had seen anywhere beside a library. The other corner of the room was hidden behind аn ornate wooden screen. 

Billy was told to stay, as someone would arrive shortly to help him. The witcher did not complain. Especially when he discovered that behind the screen was а bathtub filled with hot water - still steaming. 

The witcher was helped out of his dirty clothes and then scrubbed clean. A medic looked at his injuries and applied healing balms before bandaging them. Shortly after, he was helped into a fresh shirt and pants, their fabrics soft and warm.

The steward was there again. He helped him to take a seat and informed him that food would be brought shortly, and that the clothes and armor that were collected from the dungeon would be washed and cleaned before they were brought to him. However, after the man left the room, Billy felt himself drifting off in his seat. 

A few days passed, which were a blur of sleep and food. In between that, the witcher requested to get his satchel with his potions. The last Swallow potion left from his fight with the Leshen was still there. With its help and the medical care he was provided with, he was back on his feet in little time.. A miraculous recovery by all accounts.

However, a problem arose - he couldn't find his swords. 

“There weren’t any swords with the gentlemen's things,” the steward informed him.

Billy cursed and spat. Yet another problem he had to deal with. A witcher without swords was like _a whore without a cunt_! How was he going to work? Killing monsters with his bare fists?

The steward seemed concerned over Billy's outburst, but he had a job to do, clearly, so when the witcher was dressed he escorted him through the main hall, up the stairs to a cabinet. 

“The witcher, as you requested,” the steward introduced Billy and stepped out.

The room was probably the master's study. A giant imposing desk was placed in the center, the bookshelves behind were overflowing. From the high window, light was shining on the man sitting behind the desk. It was the stranger that had visited Billy while he was in jail. The noble. 

He was going through parchments and letters and he didn’t stop on account of the witcher being there.

Billy cleared his throat before speaking, “Thank ye for yer hospitality.” 

As if he'd been bothered and interrupted, the nobleman first paused, then looked up with bored, tired eyes. He then offered a disingenuous smile. "Sit, please," he waved to the two chairs near his desk. "You must have questions." His voice sounded empty, and a tad bit irritated. If the amounts of parchments and documents near his hands were anything to go by, it would be safe to assume he was simply exhausted with work.

The witcher pulled one of the beautifully made chairs to the side, its legs dragging on the polished hardwood floor, creating a high pitched screeching sound. He sat heavily, his armor clanking against the wood, his long chain mail touching the floor. Billy cleared his throat. “So I was told I had given my word of honor,” he said while glaring at the nobleman. “Mind telling me what conditions I’ve apparently agreed on?”

The man hummed as his eyes settled back on the papers in front of him. "Did we not already discuss this?"

It appeared that he was referring to their last talk. The witcher hadn't realized their agreement had sealed his fate so quickly, with so little preamble. In fact, he thought his consent would've been needed for such affairs.

When Billy's sharp glare didn't relent, the noble sighed. He talked as if he were addressing a child. "You do as I say. Your freedom is mine, _Uilleim_. As long as my son isn't in this manor, you are still a murderer to the authorities of Novigrad. Fail to deliver and you'll be a wanted man for as long as you live."

The witcher kept the same face on but was grinding his teeth underneath the facade. He knew there was no way out of this situation. More or less he was the man's bitch until he fulfilled his part of the deal. He hated not knowing under what suspicious circumstances the noble achieved something so difficult. _Why_ he was given away like a pet so readily. Politics, money and power had to be involved, with Billy’s name thrown into the mix no less.

He needed to address this like any other contract - missing person. The information he had was that a nobleman’s son had gone missing seven years ago. That was practically nothing. Billy closed his eyes for a second while he inhaled deeply, accepting his fate. The faster he was done, the faster all of this was going to be over. 

“I would need more information about your son before I start my investigation,” he said with a leveled tone. Billy tried to remember the name the steward had told him when he was picking him up with that carriage. _Heyton?_ He was absolutely sure that was wrong. He had been too out of it to pay proper attention. He made a note to not address the nobleman by name. “Let's start with the simple things - name, age, what did he look like?”

The nobleman looked severely unimpressed. "I guess I can't expect you to have noticed his portraits in the halls."

The witcher had been beaten and tired when he first arrived. Even now, he was led to this study in a hurry. Billy truly couldn't remember paying attention to any of the monotone portraits gathering dust on the walls of the manor. They were often boring and lacked any character.

The boy's father looked through the drawers of his desk, then withdrew a wrinkled piece of parchment, and handed it over to the witcher. "Steven. _Steven von Heitan_. He must be twenty-five on this day."

There was a sketch there of what Billy suspected was a bigger portrait. The boy looked stiff, prim and proper. There was a curl to his lips that might have been a bigger smile, but these paintings took time and patience; he probably grew bored the longer he waited to be dismissed. Billy could almost hear the instructions. _Back straight, chin up -- don’t smile so much, you’ll get wrinkles._

__

His hair was put together, the ruff around his neck looked uncomfortable, but his eyes... there was a pleasing look to them. He didn't look spoiled and arrogant like his father. His gaze was kind, the expression on his face serene. He looked like any other young man. Billy wondered how boys like him could disappear living in such big, luxurious homes. 

Billy might very well waste his time looking for him. This seemed like the only available paddle for being up shit fucking creek though. If it really had been years, Billy also wondered if he still looked like that. Poise effortless, with eyes that bored into you even through drawn lines. Perhaps it was a trick of the artist. Paintings were often made to accentuate the subject’s assets.

"He was eighteen when he disappeared." There was an urgency to the man’s voice, a glimpse of anger that was masked with the fabricated image of a worried father. No weeping, or begging. He talked of his son as if he were a black mare that could easily be found in the stillness of the night; waiting somewhere. "He often left the manor. Sometimes at midnight, sometimes during the day. He was... well, disobedient, like many boys his age. One such night he simply didn't return."

While the man was speaking Billy pocketed the sketch. He could use it as a reference in the future, even to ask the villagers for any information. He was sure he would have to.

The witcher grunted. The boy… well, he wouldn’t be _a boy_ anymore if he was still alive. So it seemed _Steven_ had a busy life outside of this house, judging by his constant sneaking out. And from his father's attitude, he could tell why. Not a lot of fun to be had here, especially for someone so young. Billy knew he needed to find a clue that would lead him to the boy’s old connections.

“Can you tell me anything about his friends? Or who he might have been seeing or been close to at the time?” 

The man, _Heitan_ , appeared doubtful. "My son kept such affairs to himself."

It wasn't a helpful answer. In fact, it would make matters all the more complicated. With jobs such as these, where the missing person was nothing but a stranger to Billy, connections were a far more reliable source. 

Thankfully, Heitan continued, and revealed something worth looking into. "He was very fond of Kaleb, Count Jordi's son. He's a Lord now, and has a residence near Yantra," he then frowned, thoughtful. "He was also friends with a merchant's son, Tommy Hilballert. But he was found dead days after Steven disappeared."

Finally a viable lead! Billy was happy… not for the dead boy, but for the clue that would bring him closer to what might have happened. It could have been a coincidence but the witcher did not believe in those. Whatever happened to Tommy Hilballert was probably in some way connected to the disappearance of the Viscount’s son.

“Was the death of the merchant’s son investigated?” Billy asked, hoping that maybe someone has done his job for him. After all it would be a lot more difficult to find evidence seven years after the death. 

Still the other connection - Kaleb, Count Jordi's son - could also prove useful. He made a note to himself to visit him too. Maybe even get it out of the way before chasing after the lead with the merchant's son. 

"A massacre," answered Heitan with little emotion. "He was found with a few others his age. All stabbed, with slit throats. They were a group of rascals from the poorer parts of the city, wandering the streets past midnight." The same time Steven reportedly left the manor. "The scene itself was... gruesome. But the culprit was never found. The guards assumed a few bandits caught up to them. After all, only a fool would leave their home unarmed during such conditions."

The Viscount snorted. Billy could only imagine the man wasn't too fond of this _Tommy_. "Still, no signs of my son."

The witcher frowned. This didn’t sound well. From what he was hearing, Steven wasn’t opposed to keeping questionable company. He couldn’t be sure what exactly had happened but it was definitely the biggest lead to finding Steven von Heitan. There were two possibilities - either he had been _with_ those boys when they got attacked… or against them. There was a possibility the nobleman’s son might not have been as sweet and helpless as he looked. It wasn’t uncommon for people of significant wealth to look for extreme thrills since they didn’t have to worry about money.

Was it possible for the boy to have slaughtered all his alleged friends and then have fled? 

“How can you describe your son's behavior at the time?” the witcher asked. “Was he… acting strangely? Or different than usual?”

Heitan narrowed his cold, dark eyes. "He was to wed a girl," he revealed. "The marriage was arranged in behalf of my best interest to expand our family and its connections. Had he realized that, he would've been grateful." The man appeared oblivious to the pressures and tribulations of being forced to marry someone you have little interest in. "He grew to despise me," added the Viscount, voice carefully void of emotion. "Disagreed with my every word just to spite me and his mother. Did all he could to anger me, to exasperate the guards, what have you. We were not on best terms."

So… there was a motive for acting out. But would it have been enough for the son to go absolutely bonkers? Billy doubted it. From what the father was saying, Steven acted like the common youth - an unhappy youth at that. Rebellion was something natural considering the circumstances. He could rule out the theory of a bored out of his mind young noble turned serial killer. It just sounded too far fetched.

The witcher couldn’t be sure of anything at this point. He needed more information. As the Viscount had said, it seemed that his relationship with his son was strained at best. Maybe there was someone else who could be able to tell a different side of the story?

“How about his mother? Could I ask her some questions?” 

The man hummed and considered this. "Eléonore changed after his disappearance, she's been particularly quiet on the topic. Distant, somber... as you'd expect. But perhaps you could wring a few words out of her. I'm afraid I'm not her confidant anymore," he offered.

The witcher nodded before speaking. “Ye tried to search for him before?” he asked, wondering if the man had in fact searched for his son before, seeing how emotionally indifferent he appeared. There were a lot of suspicious circumstances pointing to something being amiss, yet he was acquiring a tracker seven years after the incident? 

"Of course I did!" spat the Viscount, offended by the implication that he would have done otherwise. "Sent my guards to search every nook and cranny of the city, every burrow of the villages in Velen and Novigrad alike. They came back with nothing. It was as if he'd... vanished." For the first time, Heitan looked truly troubled by the fact. "He always returned, witcher. Where else would he have gone? He was reckless and brash, but never _stupid_."

A body never being found was strange. It spoke to the fact that something-- some unknown factor was at work. 

“I will find him,” the witcher said firmly. Dead or alive he was going to find him. He didn’t have any other choice. Sadly, he couldn’t learn anything else from the father, though it did seem his emotionless act could have been just that - an act. “I will need to see his room. For clues,” he added before getting up from his seat.

"Ask my steward to lead you," the Viscount suggested instead, apparently not concerned enough to make the effort himself. "I don't know where my wife is. Most days she's hard to get a hold of.” Before Heitan looked back to his desk, he fixed the witcher with a stern look. "I expect to see you again. Do not disappoint me."

Before Billy left, there was still the issue with his missing swords… and while the witcher was the Viscount’s personal servant, maybe it would be in the nobleman's best interest that he was equipped to work most efficiently. “Ah… also, my swords are gone,” he declared. “I would need to get them back. They weren’t with my things that yer… _steward_ picked up.”

Emotion crossed the nobleman's face, again. Discontent. Perhaps he was annoyed by the witcher's limitations. "Yes, your swords," he grumbled. "If they are truly a hindrance to your progress, I suppose you should be able to find them at the auction house." He gave Billy a quick look, his eyebrows drawn together. "The Borsody brothers' auction house in Oxenfurt. The Temple Guards planned on beating you dead. I wouldn't be surprised if they tried to sell your belongings beforehand." He also seized up Billy's appearance to give more bite to his following words, "Maybe they deemed your armor too worn and battered for anyone's interest."

That got a laugh out of the witcher. He looked down at his attire and patted the leather strap hanging down across his chest. “Freya’s tits, thank the gods those guards are fuckin’ stupid,” he laughed as if he was sharing some inside joke with the nobleman. Not that he was in on it, but it made it even funnier when Billy glimpsed a spark of confusion in his eyes.

The armor the witcher wore was given to him by his mentor at the School of the Bear. It was an incredibly rare and insanely expensive armor. It was forged by the legendary elven smith Tyen'sail. It was possible to be one of a kind now, because the diagrams for the crafting of the Grandmaster Ursine armor - which was the name of the armor set - were lost years ago. It was possible that the crafting of it could have cost as much as this manor.

The witcher stopped laughing by coughing into his hand. “I’ll get to it then,” he said, no humor left neither in his voice nor expression. The witcher walked out of the study, not caring enough to wait for a response, or rather he knew there wouldn’t be any.

He found himself in a corridor - walls covered in paintings that probably cost a fortune. None of the young noble boy as the Viscount had claimed. The steward was waiting to the side, and perked up when the witcher appeared. Billy noticed him and walked faster toward him.

“Yer boss told me ye can point me to where his son’s room is, and where his wife might be.” 

The steward seemed hesitant, but he nodded with finality. “The boy’s room is this way.”

Billy was led not too far from the study. They stayed on the second floor, where the stewart walked him down a hallway and to a corridor with a dead end. There were few doors there, and a window. But more noticeably, a copy of the sketch he was given – a portrait of Steven himself, bigger and colored.

The witcher paused to stare, taking in every detail the boy’s father failed to mention; the pale skin, brown eyes and chestnut hair. The glint in Steven’s gaze was still there. Billy absently commended the artist for being quite a good painter. His thoughts were interrupted by the steward’s voice.

“This is the door.”

Billy’s eyes snapped back to him, feeling hints of embarrassment. “Aye, sorry.”

“I’ll be here until you’re done.”

The room’s door looked like any other in the house, nothing to differentiate it from the rest. He opened it - the hinges squeaked with the motion, and the witcher entered the room with growing reluctance, feeling as though he was invading someone’s privacy. Scavenging through bedrooms wasn’t unfamiliar territory for him, yet he felt as if he were doing it for the first time. Perhaps hearing of the boy’s character installed some sort of restraint in him.

Once inside he closed the door behind, not wanting to be disturbed.. or maybe because he felt a bit embarrassed rummaging through the kid’s things with the steward watching.

First thing he noticed was that there was some lingering sent in the air… floral? A perfume. Maybe someone had been recently in the room. Billy doubted that this was something that was done often. There was a blanket of dust covering a big portion of the room. Whoever had been here hadn’t touched anything obvious. 

The witcher looked at the luxurious bed. It was fixed, nothing unusual about it. He looked at the nightstand, on top of it there was a brass candlestick, half-burnt candle still in it, the wax on top caked with oily dust. Nobody had lit that candle in a long while. 

The room, despite the obvious signs of abandonment, looked particularly organized, and the bed, although dusty, was carefully made. Nothing seemed out of place, yet felt tampered with. He assumed during those seven years Steven’s room had been routinely cleaned by the servants. Perhaps to give the illusion things had always been normal. Billy found that odd, even somewhat incriminating.

The curtains were drawn across the massive glass window facing the bed, but a limited amount of sunlight still shone through the fabric. Next to it was a desk with a stained vanity mirror, the surface cluttered with very few essentials and a dried inkwell. There was a wardrobe on the far corner as well, accompanied with a folded wooden panel for added privacy.

Everything looked too put together, taking away the feeling that it once belonged to someone.

The witcher stepped forward to the middle of the room, looking in all directions, thinking that he must be missing something. But what struck him was... that there wasn't anything unusual, or personal. Which wouldn't make much sense for a room of a young man. The room resembled one from an inn - empty and devoid of character. 

He needed to look more closely. He was sure this room was harboring a secret... or many.

There were paintings hanging on the walls. Billy was no expert, but the pieces seemed to match the room more than they were meant to match the boy’s interest. He found it extremely bizarre but he continued looking. 

On the small vanity, there was a jewelry box. Expensive looking, but that was about it. Inside it he found a few rings - gold, silver, another adorned with a sapphire. One however caught his attention - it was a gold signet ring. It looked ordinary compared to the rest. It didn’t match the Heitan family crest. Must have been something personal. 

Billy stared at it, admiring the design on the gold. It was expertly made. _Shinny._

He quickly pocketed it. Surely, a family this rich wouldn’t miss something so small and easily attainable. What was one ring amongst a collection? Judging by the prominent dust on the vanity, it’d been long forgotten. And besides, it could aid his investigation. As evidence, he decided. He wasn’t just trying to loot someone’s belongings. He was a _professional_.

He looked through the desk next. The witcher found a stack of letters there that he thought would prove useful, but was thoroughly disappointed after skimming through the lot. Distant family members, orders from his own father, invitations to events that took place years ago… nothing worth looking into. Only one letter in particular got his attention.

_Steven,_

_I breathed a sigh of relief after reading your last letter. I know how upset you must be at having to spend the next few weeks trapped with your father. But you shouldn’t allow it to make you miserable. Enjoy the trip while you’re there, so that when you return, you can tell me of Vizima yourself. I eagerly await your return._

_\- K_

After analyzing the signature, Billy made the connection to Kaleb, Steve’s alleged friend. It wasn’t too interesting though, so he put the letter back where he found it.

He moved on to the wardrobe. The massive mahogany doors opened with a squeak. The inside wasn’t empty like he expected; there were still clothes. With closer inspection, Billy noticed that a big part of them were eaten through by moths. However, he noticed a few shirts that looked different than the rest - worn out - definitely not something a nobleman would want to be seen in. One in particular had a stain of something red - blood, on the corner of the sleeve. Perhaps those were clothes in which Steven had gone out to his friend, the merchant’s son, Tommy.

Billy went through all the clothes, even searched for any hidden compartments in the wardrobe itself, but he didn’t find anything of significance. He grunted in disappointment and slammed the wooden doors shut. 

He was thinking of where to look next when he noticed something on the wall right next to the dresser. A chip in the paint; a bump made from slamming something against it. He didn’t even need to look around to find what would fit that shape. It was the wardrobe. He pushed it gently and the whole thing moved easily. The witcher looked down only to find something that caught his attention. 

He knelt down to examine the floor better. On the wood, right under the leg of the wardrobe, was a clear line made from repeated moving of the furniture. The line went in deeper, so Billy pushed the dresser even more until it touched the wall. And there it was - a loose floorboard.

He grinned to himself while he lifted the board up. “Found yer secret stash, _Stevie._ ”

A box made of sandalwood was under there. Its piercing scent penetrated the witcher's nostrils before he even retrieved the item. It almost made him sneeze, certainly made his eyes water. He was sure it had been hidden there for a long time.

It was considerably heavy in his hand, big enough to fit his entire forearm. The outside was covered in mold and dust, but that was not what he was interested in. When he opened the box, he quickly discovered more letters. Pieces of parchment, trinkets, a small sack of herbs... Billy lifted the latter to his nose and sniffed. _Henbane_. The boy smoked then. He even had dried mushrooms in there. No fisstech though, easily the most popular drug in the city.

Billy wanted to _laugh_ but kept quiet.

The rest of the letters weren't signed. But they seemed to come from the same person, and this caught Billy's interest. 

_Darling,_

_I’m writing because you must be worried that I’m still angry. You know full well I never hold a grudge long. The wine from your birth year - it’s simply brilliant. You absolutely must try it. But afterwards please place the bottle back where you found it. If your father doesn’t need you tomorrow evening, come see me. We’ll clear everything up over a glass of wine - or two, or more...._

The letter continued on, but it was all of the same thing. It sounded like… a love letter? Perhaps. Maybe _really_ close friends... but then why hide them? He couldn't be sure, he needed to look through the others to confirm his suspicions.

_My darling,_

_I cannot wait until we meet again. My nights are restless, my head full of thoughts of you and only you. If someone had told me but a few months prior such a virile and burning passion would bind me to another man, I would have laughed in their face. But now… Now my only desire is to be close to you. Father is beginning to suspect something, yet I have hope my reassurances will quell his worries. I would not want him to be disappointed with his only son. I know you understand this._

_Till we can meet again, please, Steven, take care._

So he was right - love letters. 

Billy could see why Steven would have kept it a secret. A romance between men was not something commonly accepted. The witcher doubted the Viscount would have been supportive of the boy's choice in company. Even if there was a possibility he knew, his attempt to wed Steven off quickly proved he had different plans for his son. This also explained the excessive rebellion from the boy’s side, even his worsening relationship with his father.

But who was the mystery man? This was a lead that was sure to pay off in a big way and Billy needed to sniff up the trail.

He looked at the letters again. There was something that was bothering him. He knew he’d seen that handwriting before - the big loop on the “h”, the completely round “o”...

He took the papers and laid them out on the desk, then went through the drawer with the first letters he had found. After cross-checking a few, he found the one that matched the writing.

It was the letter that’d been signed with a K. Presumably Count Jordi’s son, _Kaleb._


End file.
